“You don’t s’pose they’ve gone up to Cherry Hill Park, do you?” questioned Polly. “It’s just above here, you know.”
“Perhaps. Want to try it?”
Of course she did, and on they trudged, taking note of neither time nor distance, until all at once Polly was conscious of weariness.
“It seems further afoot than in an automobile, doesn’t it?” she laughed.
“Yes,” nodded David; “but we’re almost there. Wonder which road they’d be likely to take.”
Polly could not even guess, so they followed the driveways at random, on, and on, and on.
There was no lack of company. Young men and women, walking cozily close; wandering lovers from over the sea, like children hand in hand; groups of laughing, chattering girls and boys;—all these, but never a Lone Star or a dignified Colonel with his possible sweetheart.
“Let’s sit down and rest,” proposed David. “You must be tired.”
They dropped on a convenient bench, and Polly let go a sleepy little yawn.