driving along in his buggy the bay mare at a steady
jog, with the next professional call quite clearly
upon her equine mind. And Johnny's father did
not see him. Johnny did not mind that, either.
He expected nothing different.

Then Johnny saw his mother approaching. She
was coming from the club meeting. She held up her
silk skirts high, as usual, and carried a nice little
parcel of papers tied with ribbon. She also did not
notice Johnny, who, however, out of sweet respect
for his mother's nice silk dress, stopped kicking up
dust. Mrs. Trumbull on the village street was really
at home preparing a shortcake for supper.

Johnny eyed his mother's faded but rather beau-
tiful face under the rose-trimmed bonnet with ad-
miration and entire absence of resentment. Then he
walked on and kicked up the dust again. He loved
to kick up the dust in summer, the fallen leaves in
autumn, and the snow in winter. Johnny was not
a typical Trumbull. None of them had ever cared
for simple amusements like that. Looking back for
generations on his father's and mother's side (both
had been Trumbulls, but very distantly related),
none could be discovered who in the least resembled
Johnny. No dim blue eye of retrospection and re-
flection had Johnny; no tendency to tall slender-
ness which would later bow beneath the greater
weight of the soul. Johnny was small, but wiry of