"Little boy, could you direct me to the Arnold mansion?" she said to the oldest.
"Arnold mansion? Don't know any Arnolds round here."
"They live in Hillsborough. How far is that?"
"Oh, I know," put in a tot in tires. "That's the lady that has the gardens way over on the Hillsborough line."
"'Bout five miles from here, isn't it, Chester?" said another.
"Can't I get a carriage to drive me there?" Emily felt equal to five miles or twenty, now that she was once started, but if feasible she would have preferred to let some four-footed creature do the walking.
"Well," said Chester, "you see the coach is up at the academy and I guess it won't come down till the game is over. You might get a wagon."
"Oh, well, somebody may give me a ride. Which way does Hillsborough lie?"
"Follow this road straight along, till you come to the bridge. That's the Hillsborough line and I guess anybody over there will tell you."
Emily thanked her guides and sped off on her long trudge. Behind her she heard the boys' shrill chirps, mingled with the light soprano of girlhood, running up and down the bright gamut of pleasure. How melodious their joyous inflections were, compared with the harsh syllables she was accustomed to hear from the children of the pavements. How much richer and deeper this country stillness than the everlasting murmur of the city, which makes silence only a figure of speech to the dwellers within its walls.