Dolly waved her handkerchief to some one at a window of the house. “It's mother,” she said. “She's shaking her finger at me.”
“I reckon she's mad at me,” said Alan, disconsolately.
“Not much,” Dolly laughed. “She's simply crazy to come out and gossip with us. She would, too, if she wasn't afraid of father. Oh, young man, you 'll have a mother-in-law that will reverse the order of things! Instead of her keeping you straight, you 'll have to help us manage her. Father says she's 'as wild as a buck.'”
They both laughed from the fulness of their happiness. A buggy on runners dashed by. It contained a pair of lovers, who shouted and waved their hands. The sun was shining broadly. The snow would not last long. The crudest sled of all passed in the wake of the other. It was simply a plank about twelve inches wide and ten feet long to which a gaunt, limping horse was hitched. On the plank stood a triumphant lad balancing himself with the skill of a bareback rider. His face was flushed; he had never been so full of joy and ozone. From the other direction came a gigantic concern looking like a snow-plough or a metropolitan street-sweeper. It was a sliding road-wagon to which Frank Hillhouse had hitched four sturdy mules. The wagon was full of girls. Frank sat on the front seat cracking a whip and smoking. A little negro boy sat astride of the leading mule, digging his rag-clothed heels into the animal's side. Frank bowed as he passed, but his face was rigid.
“He didn't intend to ask me,” said Dolly. “He hardly speaks to me since—”
“Since what?” Alan questioned.
“Since I asked him not to come to see me so often. I had to do it. He was making a fool of himself. It had to stop.”
“You refused him?”
“Yes; but you must go now.” Dolly was laughing again. “Mother will be out here in a minute; she can't curb her curiosity any longer. She'd make you take her riding, and I wouldn't have you do it for the world. Good-bye.”
“Well, good-bye.”