“Let’s go by the bridge and come back by the ferry,” suggested Madeline. “Then we shall have the prettiest part of the ride saved for sunset.”
“And you’ll have a better road both ways, miss,” put in the groom practically.
So the party crossed the long toll-bridge, the horses stepping hesitatingly and curveting a little at the swish of the noisy water, climbed the sunny hills beyond, and dipped down to a level stretch of wood, in the heart of which they chose a picnic-ground by the side of a merry little brook.
“We must have a fire,” announced Bob, who had fallen behind the procession, and now came up at the trot, just as the others were dismounting.
“But we haven’t anything to cook,” objected Eleanor.
“Coffee,” grinned Bob jubilantly. “I’ve got folding cups stuffed around under my sweater, and I stopped at that farmhouse back by the fork in the road to get a pail.”
“And there are marshmallows to toast,” added Babe. “That’s what I’ve got in my sweater.”
“I thought you two young ladies had grown awful stout on a sudden,” chuckled the groom, beginning to pile up twigs under an overhanging ledge of rock.
“And here are some perfectly elegant mushrooms,” declared Madeline, who had been poking about among the fallen leaves. “We can use the pail for those first, and have the coffee with dessert.”
All the girls had brought sandwiches, stuffed eggs, cakes, and fruit, so that, with the extras, the picnic was “truly elegant,” as Babe put it. They sang songs while they waited for the coffee to boil, and toasted Babe’s marshmallows, two at a time, on forked sticks, voting Babe a trump to have thought of them.