As Sylvie Argenter came out at the shop-door, Rodney Sherrett appeared at the same point, safely mounted on the runaway Duke.  The team had been stopped below at the river; he had found a stable and a saddle, had left Red Squirrel and the broken vehicle to be sent for, and was going home, much relieved and assured by being able to present himself upon his father’s favorite roadster, whole in bones and with ungrazed skin.

The street boys stood round again, as he dismounted to make fresh certainty of Sylvie’s welfare, handed her into her phaeton, and then, springing to the saddle, rode away beside her, down the East Dorbury road.

Mrs. Argenter was sitting with her worsted work in the high, many-columned terrace piazza which gave grandeur to the great show-house that Mr. Argenter had built some five years since, when Sylvie, with Rod Sherrett beside her, came driving up the long avenue, or, as Mrs. Argenter liked to call it, out of the English novels, the approach.  She laid back her canvas and wools into the graceful Fayal basket-stand, and came down the first flight of stone steps to meet them.

“How late you are, Sylvie!  I had begun to be quite worried,” she said, when Sylvie dropped the reins around the dasher and stood up in the low carriage, nodding at her mother.  She felt quite brave and confident about the accident, now that Rodney Sherrett had come all the way with her to the very door, to account for it and to help her out with the story.

Rodney lifted his hat to the lady.

“We’ve had a great spill, Mrs. Argenter.  All my fault, and Red Squirrel’s.  Miss Argenter has brought home more than I have from the melee.  I started with a tandem, and here I am with only Gray Duke and a borrowed saddle.  It was out at Ingraham’s Corner,—­a quick turn, you know,—­and Miss Argenter had just stopped when Squirrel sprang round upon her.  My trap is pretty much into kindlings, but there are no bones broken.  You must let me send Rodgers round on his way to town to-morrow, to take the phaeton to the builder’s.  It wants a new axle.  I’m awful sorry; but after all”—­with a bright smile,—­“I can’t think it altogether an ill wind,—­for me, at any rate.  I couldn’t help enjoying the ride home.”

“I don’t believe you could help enjoying the whole of it, except the very minute of the tip-out itself, before you knew,” said Sylvie, laughing.

“Well, it was a lark; but the worst is coming.  I’ve got to go home all alone.  I wish you’d come and tell the tale for me, Miss Sylvie.  I shouldn’t be half so afraid!”

CHAPTER III.

TWO TRIPS IN THE TRAIN.

The seven o’clock morning train was starting from Dorbury Upper Village.

Early business men, mechanics, clerks, shop-girls, sewing-girls, office-boys,—­these made up the list of passengers.  Except, perhaps, some travellers now and then, bound for a first express from Boston, or an excursion party to take a harbor steamer for a day’s trip to Nantasket or Nahant.