But the child's eyes took it up--and danced. "He can make us a visit,"
she said, nodding--"a visit of three weeks!" She smiled happily.

Miss Stone smiled back, shaking her head. "He could not leave the
fruit-shop--"

But the child ignored it. "He will come," she said quickly, "and we
shall talk--and talk--about the gods, you know--" She lifted her eyes,
"and we shall go in the fields--He will come!" She drew a deep sigh of
satisfaction and lifted her head.

And Miss Stone, watching her, had a feeling of quick relief. She had
known for a day or two that the child was not well, and they had hurried
to get away to the fields. This was their last drive. To-morrow the
horses would be sent on; and the next day they would all go--in the
great touring car that would eat up the miles, and pass the horses, and
reach Idlewood long before them.

No one except Betty and Miss Stone used the horses now. They would have
been sold long ago had it not been for the child. The carriage was a
part of her--and the clicking hoofs and soft-shining skins and arching
necks. The sound of the hoofs on the pavement played little tunes for
Betty. Her mother had protested against expense, and her father had
grumbled a little; but if the child wanted a carriage rather than the
great car that could whir her away in a breath, it must be kept.

It made a pretty picture this morning as it turned into the busier
street and took its way among the dark, snorting cars that pushed
and sped. It was like a delicate dream that shimmered and touched the
pavement--or like a breath of the past... and the great cars skimmed