“By the way,” she began, “how is Miss Puddicombe?  I haven’t seen her lately.”

“She is very well, much better than she was during the summer.  She is in New York at present, visiting her aunt for a fortnight.”

Ah, that was why he was able to take her to ride!  She wondered if she ought to offer her congratulations, but finally decided to keep silent.  S he was not supposed to know of his engagement.

The road wound up through a maze of yellow.  Tall trees on either side sifted their gold down upon the travelers.  Juanita Sterling caught a leaf in her hand and held it.

“How beautiful it is!” she said, and drew a deep breath.

The man turned to look at her trophy.  “Oh, no!  I mean the way,” she explained.  “It is strange, but it makes me think of heaven.”

“The streets of gold?” he smiled.

“M—­no,” she replied doubtfully.  “I can’t quite tell myself; but I think it is the peace and the glory of it—­the spirit of the place.”

His eyes were on her face, and the car bumped over a stone.

“There!  That’s because I was looking at you!” he laughed.  “A motorman shouldn’t gaze at a princess.”

She gave a little gurgling laugh; then she grew grave again.

“What do you say,” he asked abruptly, “to keeping on over the mountain to Bryston and have dinner?”

Her heart gave a joyful leap, yet she answered quietly, “I am afraid—­I’d better not.”

“Oh, yes,” he urged, “let’s keep on!  I am selfish, I know; but I’d rather eat dinner with you than to eat it at home alone, and I’m sure that Squirrel Inn will give you a more appetizing meal than the Dragon will furnish.”

“I dare say,” she responded.  “What a bewitching name for an inn!  Is it as captivating as it sounds?”

“More,” he smiled.  “It is the inn that has made Belgian hare famous.”

She laughed softly, and he speeded the car.

“I took Mrs. Puddicombe up there one day, and she has raved about it ever since.  The house itself is very old, with little windows and a gambrel roof, and a well-sweep in the rear.  They say, half of the garret is given over to the squirrels.”

“What a delightful place!  I shall love it, I know!” Inwardly, however, she amended, “Maybe I shan’t!” thinking of Mrs. Puddicombe.

But once seated at the quaint little table, in the old high-backed chair, eating what tasted better than the best chicken that ever went into an oven, Juanita Sterling forgot Mrs. Puddicombe and her daughter Blanche, and smiled upon everything.

“I am having more dinners to-day than my share,” she observed over the pumpkin pie and cheese.  “We have ours at twelve, you know.”

“What did you have?”

“Codfish balls and pickles and stale bread and butter.”

“No dessert?”

“No,” she laughed; “that was cut out months ago.”

He shook his head gravely.  “I didn’t suppose it was as bad as that.”