“Yes, a pretty good chance,” he told her; “but even then your father—”
“He'd not hold out against you then,” said Dolly, just for an impulsive moment clasping his arm as they shot through a snow-drift and turned a corner of the street leading into the country.
“Then it must succeed,” he said, looking at her tenderly. “It must, Dolly.”
“I shall pray for it—that and nothing else.”
Feeling the slack reins on their backs, the horses slowed up till they were plodding along lazily. Suddenly the sled began to drag on the clay road where the wind had bared it of snow, and the horses stopped of their own accord, looking back at their increased burden inquiringly. Alan made no effort to start them on again. It was a sequestered spot, well hidden from the rest of the road by an old hedge of Osage orange bushes.
“We must not stop, dear,” Dolly said, laying her hand again on his arm. “You know driving is—is different from this. As long as we are moving in any direction, I have no scruples, but to stop here in the road—no, it won't do.”
“I was just wondering if we can start them,” he said, a mischievous look in his laughing eye.
“Start them?” She extended her hand for the reins, but he held them out of her reach. “Why, what do you mean?”
“Why, you saw the way they were started at the hotel,” he answered, in quite a serious tone. “Ray has trained them-that way. They won't budge an inch unless—”
“Oh, you silly boy!” Dolly was flushing charmingly.