Prudence sang for pure delight as she rode swiftly along the country
roads. The country was simply irresistible. It was almost intoxicating.
And Prudence rode farther than she had intended. East and west, north
and south, she went, apparently guided only by her own caprice. She knew
it was growing late, "but Fairy'll get breakfast," she thought
comfortably.

Finally she turned in a by-road, leading between two rich hickory groves.
Dismounting at the top of a long hill, she gazed anxiously around her.
No one was in sight. The nearest house was two miles behind, and the
road was long, and smooth, and inviting, and the hill was steep.
Prudence yearned for a good, soul-stirring coast, with her feet high up
on the framework of the wheel, and the pedals flying around beneath her
skirts. This was not the new and modern model of bicycle. The pedals on
Mattie Moore's wheel revolved, whether one worked them or not.

It seemed safe. The road sloped down gradually at the bottom, with an
incline on the other side. What more could one desire. The only living
thing in sight besides birds gossiping in the leafy branches and the
squirrel scolding to himself, was a sober-eyed serious mule peacefully
grazing near the bottom of the hill.

Prudence laughed gleefully, like a child. She never laughed again in
exactly that way. This was the last appearance of the old irresponsible
Prudence. The curtain was just ready to drop.

"Here goes!" she cried, and leaping nimbly into the saddle, she pedaled
swiftly a few times, and then lifted her feet to the coveted position.
The pedals flew around beneath her, just as she had anticipated, and the
wind whistled about her in a most exhilarating way.