“What ever put that idea in your head?” Hilary asked.  It was one of Hilary’s chief missions in life to act as intermediary between her younger and older sister.

“Oh, I just gathered it, from what she said.  Towser and I met her this afternoon, on our way home from the manor.”

“From where, Patience?” her mother asked quickly, with that faculty for taking hold of the wrong end of a remark, that Patience had had occasion to deplore more than once.

And in the diversion this caused, Sextoness Jane was forgotten.

“Here comes Mr. Boyd, Hilary!” Pauline called from the foot of the stairs.

Hilary finished tying the knot of cherry ribbon at her throat, then snatching up her big sun-hat from the bed, she ran down-stairs.

Before the side door, stood the big wagon, in which Mr. Boyd had driven over from the farm, its bottom well filled with fresh straw.  For Hilary’s outing was to be a cherry picnic at The Maples, with supper under the trees, and a drive home later by moonlight.

Shirley had brought over the badges a day or two before; the blue ribbon, with its gilt lettering, gave an added touch to the girls’ white dresses and cherry ribbons.

Mr. Dayre had been duly made an honorary member.  He and Shirley were to meet the rest of the party at the farm.  As for Patience H. M., as Tom called her, she had been walking very softly the past few days.  There had been no long rambles without permission, no making calls on her own account.  There had been a private interview between herself and Mr. Boyd, whom she had met, not altogether by chance, down street the day before.

The result was that, at the present moment, Patience—­white-frocked, blue-badged, cherry-ribboned—­was sitting demurely in one corner of the big wagon.

Mr. Boyd chuckled as he glanced down at her; a body’d have to get up pretty early in the morning to get ahead of that youngster.  Though not in white, nor wearing cherry ribbons, Mr. Boyd sported his badge with much complacency.  Winton was looking up, decidedly.  ’Twasn’t such a slow old place, after all.

“All ready?” he asked, as Pauline slipped a couple of big pasteboard boxes under the wagon seat, and threw in some shawls for the coming home.

“All ready.  Good-by, Mother Shaw.  Remember, you and father have got to come with us one of these days.  I guess if Mr. Boyd can take a holiday you can.”

“Good-by,” Hilary called, and Patience waved joyously.  “This’ll make two times,” she comforted herself, “and two times ought to be enough to establish what father calls ‘a precedent.’”

They stopped at the four other houses in turn; then Mr. Boyd touched his horses up lightly, rattling them along at a good rate out on to the road leading to the lake and so to The Maples.

There was plenty of fun and laughter by the way.  They had gone picnicking together so many summers, this same crowd, had had so many good times together.  “And yet it seems different, this year, doesn’t it?” Bell said.  “We really aren’t doing new things—­exactly, still they seem so.”