"So ye can," returned the driver. "It's a straight piece, now, clean to Miss Linn's."
"Thank you," said Gay, gathering up the reins in small brown hands as steady as the driver's own. He drove with many a loud, exultant crack of the whip, guiding the horses with more flourishes than a veteran member of a coaching club, over the smooth country road, past the village shops and the post-office, at a smart trot, and up the lane that led to the prig's house as fast as the horses could trot. The prig climbed down over the side of the coach and paid his fare with ill-concealed reluctance; he had been bounced and jolted by the objectionable young romp on the box until his bones and his temper were alike affected. He said "Good afternoon," as if he had been speaking an eternal farewell, and one that gave him considerable satisfaction.
"Now how much further is it?" Gay inquired, as the door closed behind the prig.
"That's Rose Cottage, your aunt's place, down yonder," the driver replied, pointing to a house not far distant.
"So near!" sighed Gay. "If I had known it I would have pulled up the horses a little and pieced out the drive."
In summer everybody in Hazelnook receives callers on the porch, and Miss Linn and Miss Celia were entertaining the judge's mother, the doctor's wife, and the minister on the vine-embowered porch of Rose Cottage when the stage drove up, Gay still handling the reins.
"Auntie! See me!" Gay cried. "I've driven half the way. It is awfully jolly to sit up here and the driver let me use the whip—use it, not just crack it—twice!"
Miss Linn looked at Miss Celia, Miss Celia looked at the judge's mother, the judge's mother looked at the doctor's wife, and she looked in her turn at the minister, who was too much astonished to look at any one!
Finally, Miss Celia said,—