But there on the bench by the doorway in the nipping morning air sits Azalea, with her nose and ears growing redder and redder!
“Jim,” she called, awakening from her reverie, “we’ll be late as sure as anything.”
“Coming right along now, sis,” answered the boy as he came running from the stable with the two ponies. “Hop into the saddle, Zalie, and we’ll just pelt it down the mountain. Here, I’ll hold him. There you are. Hi—they’re off.”
They surely were. Pa McBirney, busy in his little smithy, heard the clatter of hoofs and thrust his head from the door.
“Watch out, you two!” he warned.
“We will,” they called in chorus as they dashed on.
“My sakes,” said pa, coming in from the shop and wiping his hands on his leathern apron, “I trust to luck ma didn’t see ’em going off. Them young uns are getting too much spirit in ’em to suit me; and as for the ponies, I think they ought to be cut down on their feed.”
But neither Azalea nor James Stuart was wanting anyone to cut down on anything. As the firm-footed ponies took the cut-offs, minding neither curve nor steep, the children shouted with delight.
“Late?” yelled Jim mockingly. “Who said late? We couldn’t be late if we tried.”
They reached the parting of their ways, and Azalea, who was leading, turned in her saddle to wave to Jim.