Bethany sank back gratefully among the cushions. Jerry had been her father's coachman at one time. He grinned from ear to ear as she took her seat.
"We'll take a spin along the river road," she said. "Give me a glimpse of the fields and the golden-rod, and then take me to Mrs. Marion's, on Phillips Avenue."
"Yes, miss," said Jerry, touching his hat. "I know all the roads you like best!"
The impatient horses needed no urging. They fairly flew down the beaten track that led from the noisy, bouldered streets into the grassy byways. On they went, past suburban orchards and outlying pastures, to the sights and sounds of the real country.
Bethany heard the slow, restful tinkle of bells in a quiet lane where the cows stood softly lowing at the bars. She heard the coo of doves in the distance, and the call of a quail in a brown stubble-field near by. Then the wind swept up from the river, now turning red in the sunset. It put new life into her pulses, and a new light in her eyes. The weariness was all gone. The wind had blown the light, curly hair about her face, and she put up her hands to smooth it back, as they came in sight of Mrs. Marion's house.
"It doesn't make any difference," she thought. "I can run up into Cousin Ray's room and put myself in order before any one sees me."
As the carriage stopped, some one stepped up quickly to assist her alight. It was David Herschel.
"Of all times!" she thought; "when I am literally blown to pieces. How queerly things do happen in this world!"
To her still greater wonderment, instead of closing the gate after her and going on down the street, he followed her up the steps.
"Cousin Ray said this was to be a surprise," she thought. "This must be part of it."