“How shall we go, Will, and where?”
“Oh, let’s go to Sylvan Grove. It is only ten miles. Let me see. Two of you can ride horseback.
“Will you and Irving ride, Gertrude? And, Burkhardt, you and madame and Elsie and Bob might take the buckboard, and we three old fogies—pardon me, General,—will follow on with the provisions. Will that suit, Penel?”
“All right. And now let’s get ready. Can you all start in three quarters of an hour?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Promptly we all sallied forth, and it was a merry party. The air was perfect, and Irving, Bolton and I cantered on ahead, and finding ourselves far in advance, we turned and rode across country for a few miles.
It was a perfect day, and the picnic was a perfect success. At dinner that night we voted it as the best day yet.
“Well, to-morrow is the golf tournament, you know,” said Will, and turning to his wife, he added, “Didn’t you say there was a dinner on too?”
“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot. Dear old Mrs. Preston asked us all to dinner.” Turning towards me she said, “You remember at our tea, the day after you came, a white-haired lady accompanied by her granddaughter?”
“Yes, indeed I do. I think you said she lives in that gray stone house we passed to-day.”