“No; it is almost the first of June, and so warm.  Besides, I am only going out to the wilderness.  I am clean and comfortable, and that is the main thing.”

“Unless we get a shower,” Allyn suggested.

Phebe looked up at the sky.

“There isn’t a cloud in sight, Allyn.  It’s not going to rain, I know.”

“It’s sultry.  You can’t ever tell about a day like this.  Still, if you want to risk it,—­”

“I do.”  And Phebe mounted her bicycle.

The Savins lay at the western edge of the town.  Beyond it, the road to Bannock Bars led away straight toward the sunset, over hill and hollow, through stretches of sand and along narrow footpaths.  It was a road to terrify an amateur; but Phebe’s riding was strong and steady, and she was glad to be in the saddle once more, forgetful of her work and only conscious of the sweet spring life about her.  It was only an hour later that The Savins was ten miles behind her, and she was setting up her wheel against Mrs. Richardson’s stone horse-block.

Mrs. Richardson met her accusingly.

“I hope you’ve got them pills,” she demanded, without any formal preliminaries.

“Yes, my father has sent them.”

“I wrote for them, day before yesterday.  I thought sure they’d come yesterday.”

“He was busy,” Phebe said curtly, as she took off her sailor hat and fanned herself.

“Jim Sykes said he see him drivin’ off over Wisdom way.”

“Yes, he had a case there, an important case.”  Phebe’s head was tilted at an aggressive angle.

“I guess I was some important, or he’d have said so, if he’d see me, last night.  I had a bad spell, and like to fainted.”

“What had you been eating?” Phebe inquired, with a sudden access of professional severity.

“Be you his youngest girl?” Mrs. Richardson asked rather irrelevantly.

“Yes.”

“The one that was in Paris?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder at your father’s lettin’ you go.  They say it’s an awful wicked city, and I hear it’s nip and tuck whether a person comes home as good as she went.”

“I didn’t find it so.”

“Maybe not.  Still, it’s risky and I don’t think much of folks that don’t find America good enough for ’em.  You look hot.  Come in and get a drink of water.”

Inside the house and with a glass of water in her hand, Phebe felt that it devolved upon her to make some efforts at conversation.

“You said you were worse, last night; didn’t you?  What were the symptoms?” she asked, between her sips.

“What’s generally the symptoms?  I felt sick and wanted to keel over.”

“Had you been—?”

“No; I hadn’t.  You tell your father that I’ll tell him about it, when he comes.  I ain’t goin’ to be doctored by hearsay.  Did you see Sol Bassitt’s barn, as you come over the hill?”

“I came by the lower road.”