Her journey to Hickory Hill had been, so she had told herself at intervals during the day, merely a flight from her father and Paula.  There was no real reason for thinking that she would find March at the end of it.  Week-end visits usually ended Monday morning, and it was probable that he would have gone hours before she arrived.  She was conscious now of having commanded herself not to be silly when she was fretting over the late start from Ravinia and Paula’s errand in town.  It would be nice to see him again!  He was probably out in the hay field with the others.

She gave her aunt a rather absent-minded greeting and a highly condensed summary of her news.  Her father was well and was stopping on with Paula for a day or two.

“He’s taken over my job,” she concluded mischievously, “maid, chauffeur and chaperon.  Paula doesn’t mind now that she’s made such an enormous hit and she doesn’t sing again until Thursday.  Pete will take you in the big car to Durham.”

“Well, that’s Heaven’s mercy,” exclaimed Miss Wollaston.  “I don’t like to drive with Sylvia in any car and I don’t like riding in a Ford no matter who drives.  But Sylvia driving a Ford—­her own car’s broken down somehow—­is simply frightful.”

“She’s waiting for me now,” said Mary, “to take me out to the hay field.  I must run before she grows any more impatient.”

And run was precisely what she did, down the slope to where Sylvia awaited her, a lighter-hearted creature altogether than she had supposed this morning that it was possible for her to be.

She got an explanation of the piano from Sylvia.  She had gone with Rush and Mr. March to an auction sale late Saturday afternoon at a farm three or four miles away.  Just for a lark.  They hadn’t meant seriously to buy anything.  But this old piano, Mr. March having sworn that he would make it play despite the fact that half the keys wouldn’t go down at all and the rest when they did made only the most awful noises, they had bought for eleven dollars, and had fetched home in the truck on Sunday.

“I think he’s terribly nice,” Sylvia confided.  “You know him, don’t you?  He’s quite old, of course.—­Well, over thirty he says; but he’s awfully—­don’t you know—­well preserved.  There are a whole lot of things he can do.”

Mary laughed.  “That is remarkable.  How old are you, you nice young thing?  Going on six?  Lookout!  You’ll smash the lemonade!”

“We’re going to surprise them,” Sylvia announced when they had arrived, miraculously without disaster, at the northeast eighty.  They had careened through the wagon gate and halted under an oak tree at the edge of the field.  “I’ll go and tell them I’ve brought the lemonade, but I won’t say anything about you.  You keep out of sight behind the tree.  Then Graham won’t want to go and brush his hair.”

It startled Mary to realize that she had forgotten all about Graham.  Not even the sight of his sister had recalled the—­highly special nature of the state of things between them nor suggested the need for preparing an attitude to greet him with.  At all events she wouldn’t follow Sylvia’s suggestion and pop out at him from behind a tree.