Amelia packed our lunch and asked when we would be home.
"It is impossible to say," I told her. "When one rides away into the country or into a sunset or into a moonrise one may never return."
And Amelia stared as she does sometimes when I cannot keep the laughter and happiness out of my voice.
"There's the steak," she said.
"Cook it when we come in," I called as I followed Dimbie through the wooden gate—which is such a joy to me, as it might have been iron—and down the lane.
How glorious it was as we spun along the smooth, red roads, and felt the sun and wind on our faces, and breathed spring—for spring was everywhere!
"Go on in front, Marg," commanded Dimbie. "I want to look at the sun on your hair. It's like pure gold."
I humoured his fancy.
"I want to feel it," he called, "to stroke it, it looks quite hot. Let's stop for a rest."
We dismounted, and sat down on a bank.