“Some day, perhaps, Clem,” he muttered. “Not this summer. Come on.” When they had left the church, he drew out his watch and started. “Run along and play, Clem.” He left her and hurried to the barn.
Joe was waiting.
“Have we time for the long road, Joe?” asked Alan as he climbed into the cart.
“Oh, yes, sir, especially if you drive, Mr. Alan.”
“I don’t want to drive. Let him go and jump in.”
The coachman gave the pony his head, climbed in, and took the reins. The cart swung out, and down the lane.
“Alan! Alan!”
Alan recognized Clem’s voice and turned. She was racing across a corner of the pasture. Her short skirts flounced madly above her ungainly legs. She tried to take the low stone wall in her stride. Her foot caught in a vine, and she pitched headlong into the weeds and grass at the roadside.
Alan leaped from the cart and picked her up, quivering, sobbing, and breathless.
“Alan,” she gasped, “you’re not going away?”