"If we go," said Mary Leonard, slowly and impressively, "you'll have to drive with Samuel Hatt."
"Oh, I went with him last time," broke in Lucy, apprehensively. "It's your turn."
"But you know I just won't," said Mary Leonard, her eyes sparkling, and the dimples that, like Miss Jessie Brown, she had not left off, appearing and disappearing. "And somebody has to go with him."
"Perhaps they won't ask him."
"Oh, but they will. They always do, on account of his horses. It wouldn't be a picnic without Samuel Hatt."
Just then the train drew up at a small station. Lucy Eastman started as she read the name of the place as it passed before her eyes.
"Mary," said she, "this is where Mr. Hatt always used to get on the train. There are the Hatt Mills, and he goes up and down every day,—don't you remember? And how we were—we are—always afraid we'll meet him on the train."
"Of course," said Mary Leonard, leaning forward and scanning the platform with its row of idlers and its few travellers. "Well, he isn't here now. We are going to escape him this time. But my heart was in my mouth! I don't want Samuel Hatt to be the first Englefield person we meet."
They looked up with careless curiosity at the people who entered the train. There was a little girl with a bunch of common garden flowers following close behind a tired-looking woman, who had been, obviously, "spending the day;" a florid old gentleman with gold spectacles, who revealed a bald head as he removed his hat and used it for a fan,—they had seen him hurrying to the platform just before the train moved out; a commercial traveller, and a schoolboy.
"No," said Mary Leonard, "he isn't here this time."