Then he was out on the road to the landing; and in five minutes more he was vigorously rowing the “Jenny” out through the inlet, towards the bay.

His heart was not beating unpleasantly any longer; but as he shot out from the narrow passage through the flags, and saw the little waves laughing in the cool, dim starlight, he suddenly stopped rowing, leaned on his oars, gave a great sigh of relief, and exclaimed,—­

“Dar, I’s safe now.  I ain’t got to say a word to nobody out yer.  Wonder ’f I’ll ebber git back from de ‘Cad’my, an’ ketch fish in dis yer bay.  Sho!  Course I will.  But goin’ ’way’s awful!”

Dab Kinzer thought he had never before known Jenny Walters to appear so well as she looked that evening; and he must have been right, for good Mrs. Foster said to Annie,—­

“What a pleasant, kindly face your new friend has!  You must ask her to come and see us.  She seems to be quite a favorite with the Kinzers.”

“Have you known Dabney long?” Annie had asked of Jenny a little before that.

“Ever since I was a little bit of a girl, and a big boy, seven or eight years old, pushed me into the snow.”

“Was it Dabney?”

“No; but Dabney was the boy that pushed him in for doing it, and then helped me up.  Dab rubbed his face with snow for him, till he cried.”

“Just like him!” exclaimed Annie with emphasis.  “I should think his friends here will miss him.”

“Indeed they will,” said Jenny, and then she seemed disposed to be quiet for a while.

The party could not last forever, pleasant as it was; and by the time his duties as “host” were all done and over, Dabney was tired enough to go to bed and sleep soundly.  His arms were lame and sore from the strain the ponies had given them; and that may have been the reason why he dreamed, half the night, that he was driving runaway teams, and crashing over rickety old bridges.

There was some reason for that; but why was it that every one of his dream-wagons, no matter who else was in it, seemed to have Jenny Walters and Annie Foster smiling at him from the back seat?

He rose later than usual next morning, and the house was all in its customary order by the time he got down stairs.

Breakfast was ready also; and it was hardly over before Dab’s great new trunk was brought down into the front-door passage by a couple of the farmhands.

“It’s an hour yet to train-time,” said Ham Morris; “but we might as well get ready.  We must be on hand in time.”

What a long hour that was!  And not even a chance given to Dab to run down to the landing for a good-by look at the “Jenny” and “The Swallow.”

His mother and Ham, and Miranda, and the girls, seemed to be all made up of “good-by” that morning.

“Mother,” said Dab.

“What is it, my dear boy?”

“That’s it exactly.  If you say ‘dear boy’ again, Ham Morris’ll have to carry me to the cars.  I’m all kind o’ wilted now.”