Back through the village we came, after an all too short half-hour. Somehow the news had spread, and from every gate and window, hands waved and friendly faces peered. They were glad to see me, the Green Hill people.
"Is she crying?" asked Dr. Denton at the wheel, with interest.
I wanted to. I wanted to cry and laugh and shout all at once. Instead I folded my hands more tightly in Father's and said demurely, "Sorry, but she isn't."
Dr. Denton nodded, slouched down in his seat, his strong brown hands doing marvellous things to the wheel.
"Please," I asked Mr. Denton, "next time you take me riding, will you drive, and may I sit in the front seat and watch you steer?"
Everyone laughed.
"Ask Bill," answered my old friend, "I've just sold him the car."
"You may ride in the front seat—with me," announced Dr. Denton graciously, before I had time to withdraw my request, "always providing that you do not clutch my arm at inopportune moments, or scream as you did six minutes back," he added, "when that mongrel pup appeared on the horizon, a good mile away."
"I don't think," I said, "that, after all, I'd care for the front seat."
"Very well," said the chauffeur obligingly, as, with a turn and twist we rolled up smoothly before my own front door, where Sarah, apron flying in the wind, stood, the tears shining on her dear old face.