So it wasn't the new coat, after all. Molly's brow cleared.

"How queer you are, Polly!" she said. "I can't stand it to wait, I
am so wild to know. Come on, let's have a race to the bridge,
then."

"But you just said I mustn't run," protested Polly, hanging back.

"Not after hens, when the owner is looking on," answered Molly;
"but it's our own affair, if we want to run a race. Come on."

She threw the last word back over her shoulder as she went darting
away, followed by Polly who soon passed her, laughing and
breathless. In the middle of the long, white bridge she stopped
and looked about her, struck by the beauty of the familiar scene
around, the soft hills at the north, the shining, river as it
wound along through the russet meadow grass, and cut its way
between the southern mountains, over which slowly flitted the
clouds above. A few belated crows rose and sank down again over
the deserted corn-fields, while, from the red house on the river
bank, the great black dog barked an answer to their hoarse cries.
No other living thing was in sight as Molly joined her friend, and
they stood leaning against the iron rail, with their backs turned
to the cutting wind that came down upon them from the northern
hills.

"Now, Polly." And Molly paused expectantly.

From rosy red, Polly's face grew very white, and her breath came
short and hurried. She hesitated for an instant, then plunged her