A train passed as she cantered through the gate and started down the road beside the railroad track.  She drew rein to watch it thunder by.  Some child at the window pointed a finger at her, and then two smiling little faces were pressed against the pane for an eager glimpse.  It was the prettiest wayside picture the passengers had seen in all that morning’s travel—­the Little Colonel on her pony, with the spray of locust bloom in the cockade of the Napoleon cap she wore, and a plume of the same graceful blossoms nodding jauntily over each of Tarbaby’s black ears.

As the admiring faces whirled past her, Lloyd drew a long breath of relief.  “I’m glad that I don’t have to do my riding in a smoky old car this May mawnin’,” she thought.  “It is wicked for me to be so unhappy when I have Tarbaby and all the othah things that mothah and Papa Jack have given me.  I know perfectly well that they love me just the same even if they have forgotten my birthday, and I won’t let such old black crow thoughts flock down on me.  I’ll ride fast and get away from them.”

That was harder to do than she had imagined, for as she passed Judge Moore’s place the deserted house added to her feeling of loneliness.  Andy, the old gardener, was cutting the grass on the front lawn.  She called to him.

“When is the family coming out from town, Andy?”

“Not this summer, Miss Lloyd,” he answered.  “It’ll be the first summer in twenty years that the Judge has missed.  He has taken a cottage at the seaside, and they’re all going there.  The house will stay closed, just as you see it now, I reckon, for another year.”

“At the seashore!” she echoed.  “Not coming out!” She almost gasped, the news was so unexpected.  Here was another disappointment, and a very sore one.  Every summer, as far back as she could remember, Rob Moore had been her favourite playfellow.  Now there would be no more mad Tam O’Shanter races, with Rob clattering along beside her on his big iron-gray horse.  No more good times with the best and jolliest of little neighbours.  A summer without Rob’s cheery whistle and good-natured laugh would seem as empty and queer as the woods without the bird voices, or the meadows without the whirr of humming things.  She rode slowly on.

There was no letter for her when she stopped at the post-office to inquire for the mail.  The girls on whom she called afterward were not at home, so she rode aimlessly around the Valley until nearly lunch-time, wishing for once that it were a school-day.  It was the longest Saturday morning she had ever known.  She could not practise her music lesson for fear of making her mother’s headache worse.  She could not go near the kitchen, where she might have found entertainment, for Aunt Cindy was in one of her black tempers, and scolded shrilly as she moved around among her shining tins.

There was no one to show her how to begin her new piece of embroidery; Papa Jack had forgotten to bring out the magazines she wanted to see; Walker had failed to roll the tennis-court and put up the net, so she could not even practise serving the balls by herself.