“She’s not half as silly as you are,” laughed Betty. “But seriously, Jim, I don’t know what I shall do when you go. You’re such a splendid safety-valve. And then these glorious rides——”
“We’ve had only two——”
“There you go again,” sighed Betty. “Do you expect a busy person like me to take whole afternoons off every single week? Oh, dear! Aren’t those bittersweet berries on the vines growing over those little trees?”
“I don’t know anything about the habits or appearance of bittersweet berries, but I’ll bring you some.”
He was back in a few minutes with a bunch of the pretty red berries. Betty looked at them closely. “Oh, it is bittersweet!” she cried. “Madeline and Emily want some most dreadfully for the copper jar at the Tally-ho. Could we carry a few sprays back, do you think?”
“Carry a bushel, if you like,” Jim declared. “But first—there’s a trail up there that starts off through the woods. What do you say to trying it?”
They rode as far as they could under the red and yellow boughs, and when the trail stopped Jim discovered a grove of walnut trees, and Betty declared that proved they were almost up Walnut Mountain. So they tied the horses and climbed the rest of the way, up a steep, pebbly path, hearing a partridge whirr on the way and scattering a whole family of lively little chipmunks who ran ahead of them, scolding angrily at so unwarrantable an intrusion of their private playground. They arrived panting at the top at last, and stayed so long looking at the view that they felt obliged to run all the way down to the horses. Then Jim showed Betty how to pack a “bushel” of bittersweet behind her saddle for the Tally-ho, and tied another bunch on his for Morton Hall. They cantered all the way home in the crisp, frosty dusk, and Jim, in answer to Betty’s mocking inquiry about his blues, declared it had been such a ripping afternoon that he believed they were lost forever in the Bay of the Ploshkin.
Betty dined at the Tally-ho, with Madeline, Straight Dutton, and Georgia.
“We’ve found a perfect Morton Hall-ite for you,” Georgia informed her eagerly. “Just exactly the kind you want, and she hadn’t applied and wasn’t going to.”
“Who is she?” demanded Betty. “And will she come?”