Now Auntie hurries in to the kitchen, to see that the beautiful brown loaves of bread, baking in the oven, are not burning. Zoe departs on her mission; she walks down the road slowly; it is awfully warm. Goodness! she never felt the heat so intense, with such a trot way down ever so far. Ah! here is a brilliant chance for saving herself the weary walk to Mrs. Haley's. Coming down behind is a cart filled with hay, and sitting on top are three little boys in white pinafores, chattering to the old man who holds the reins, and every little while flicks a fly off the horses' backs with the whip he idly dangles.
"Have a ride?" comes in chorus from the load of hay. Without a second invitation, throwing the basket up ahead, Zoe climbs nimbly up; with the able assistance of the three small pinafored gentlemen, she is pulled triumphantly aloft. The heat is great, but it has no visible effect on the three younger members of the party. After tumbling about at the imminent peril of being minutely precipitated over the side, they propose to bury Zoe alive. This takes some time to accomplish to every one's satisfaction, so long, in fact, that presently Mrs. Haley's white mite of a cottage appears in view. Zoe suggests that perhaps she had better alight before she gets quite to the door. So the horses are stopped by a tremendous "whoa!" and Zoe proceeds to descend as gracefully as it is possible to do so. She is going down famously, thinking how more than fortunate it is that she got this ride on such a melting day. She happens to glance up the road; oh, horrors! coming leisurely down, with his hands thrust carelessly in the pockets of a little dark blue shooting coat, and a cigar between his lips, is a man—a young man too—and, yes, he is looking at her. She misses her balance, her foot slips, and, throwing her arms wildly upward, arrives in the arms of mother earth, in any but a dignified descent.
The "horrid brute" came quickly to see if he could assist the young lady to arise; he takes her arm, and Zoe stands up, her face as red as the scarlet passion flower tucked in her belt.
"You are very kind," she stammers. "I should not have got up there; it was very unfortunate."
The gentleman, finding she is unharmed, lifts his hat and proceeds on his way.
Zoe hurries into Mrs. Haley's. Oh how silly she feels; oh heart! what would auntie say if she knew the disgrace which had fallen upon her niece? She wondered, with a sickening at her heart, if he had seen her feet. Oh, dear! if he had would it not be dreadful? She looked at her pretty slippered feet inquiringly. Of course they were nothing to be ashamed of, but oh dear! And now come to think of it, "Auntie" had strictly forbidden her riding on top of hay carts, ever since she had read in the papers how some one had fell and broke their arm. Oh, she hoped and prayed Auntie would never find out this wretched morning's work.
Zoe did her errand, and returned home, taking special care to "walk." And the "horrid man," sitting on the veranda, talking so comfortably with aunt Adeline, on being presented to "my youngest niece," bows, and seems as unconscious of ever having laid eyes on the youngest Miss Litchfield before, or knew what a pretty sight a young lady could make of herself, coming to the ground in a diagonal line from half way down a cart of hay. Yes, coming quickly around the corner, and running right up the steps, she was astonished at finding this stranger conversing with her aunt. Miss Litchfield rocked to and fro in the little wicker chair, and Zoe, as she stands there holding the little basket with the rolls of fragrant, sweet butter, covered with cool green leaves, concludes in her own mind, this young man must be something of a favourite, or auntie would not be so willing to be interrupted in her morning's work.
"Zoe, how hot you are, child; your face is perfectly scarlet. What is the matter with your skirt, child? a great rent in one side, a frill torn beyond all mending, and the dress a brand new muslin, just made last week. Where have you been, or what have you been about, to, literally speaking, come home in such a ragamuffin fashion?"
Zoe looks at her dress in dismay. Not for one instant had she remembered to notice if her tumble had proved destructive to the pretty new suit she had felt so proud of. Auntie was waiting for an answer to her question. The young gentleman was busy looking at the fuschia climbing up the pillar near which he sat. Perhaps he turned to look at the flower, perhaps it was to hide the smile of amusement which would curl the corners of his handsome mouth.
"Put your hair off your forehead, do, child. The person who invented the fashion of wearing one's hair all over their eyes should have been banished from all civilized lands. The only thing that will keep your father out of Heaven, Zoe Litchfield, is your persistent act of wearing bangs, for it is the only fault in you that makes him angry."