What did happen was this. After the extra wraps had been collected and donned, Mr. Black carried his charges all the way to Bancroft, a distance of seventeen miles, in perfect safety. The road was good, the day was mild and the only team they passed obligingly turned in at its own gate before they reached it. They stopped in front of the biggest and best hotel in Bancroft.
"Everybody out for dinner," ordered Mr. Black.
"But, Peter," expostulated Mrs. Crane, hanging back, bashfully, "I'm in my every-day clothes."
"Well, this isn't Sunday; and you always look well dressed. You're a very neat woman, Sarah."
"Well I am neat, but black alpaca isn't silk even if my sleeves are this year's. And for goodness' sake, Peter, don't ask me to pronounce any of that bill of fare if it isn't plain every-day English, for you know there isn't a French fiber in my tongue. You order for me. There's only one thing I can't eat and that's parsnips."
It was a very nice dinner and plain English enough to suit even matter-of-fact Mrs. Crane. After the first few bashful moments, the four girls chattered so merrily that all the guests at other tables caught themselves listening and smiling sympathetically.
"I never ate a really truly hotel dinner before," confided Bettie, happily.
"And to think," sighed Jean, contentedly, "of doing it without knowing you were going to! That always makes things nicer."
"And I never expected to ride in a navy-blue automobile," murmured Marjory.
"Or to have four kinds of potatoes," breathed Mabel, who sat half surrounded by empty dishes—"little birds' bath-tubs," she called them.