“Whoa, Ann, whoa!” stammered Miss Prue nervously.
The hoof beats were almost abreast now, and hurriedly Miss Prue turned her head. At once she gave the reins an angry jerk; in the other light carriage sat Rupert Joyce, the young man who for weeks had been unsuccessfully trying to find favor in her eyes because he had already found it in the eyes of her ward and niece, Mary Belle.
“Good-morning, Miss Prue,” called a boyish voice.
“Good-morning,” snapped the woman, and jerked the reins again.
Miss Prue awoke then to the sudden realization that if the other’s speed had accelerated, so, too, had her own.
“Ann, Ann, whoa!” she commanded. Then she turned angry eyes on the young man. “Go by--go by! Why don’t you go by?” she called sharply.
In obedience, young Joyce touched the whip to his gray mare: but he did not go by. With a curious little shake, as if casting off years of dull propriety, Jupiter Ann thrust forward his nose and got down to business.
Miss Prue grew white, then red. Her hands shook on the reins.
“Ann, Ann, whoa! You mustn’t--you can’t! Ann, please whoa!” she supplicated wildly. She might as well have besought the wind not to blow.
On and on, neck and neck, the horses raced. Miss Prue’s bonnet slipped and hung rakishly above one ear. Her hair loosened and fell in straggling wisps of gray to her shoulders. Her eyeglasses dropped from her nose and swayed dizzily on their slender chain. Her gloves split across the back and showed the white, tense knuckles. Her breath came in gasps, and only a moaning “whoa--whoa” fell in jerky rhythm from her white lips. Ashamed, frightened, and dismayed, Miss Prue clung to the reins and kept her straining eyes on the road ahead.