“There!” she exclaimed, when the flowers were fastened to her satisfaction.  “Yo’ lookin’ mighty fine this mawnin’, Tarbaby!  Maybe I’ll take you visitin’ aftah I’ve been to the post-office and mailed these lettahs.  You didn’t know that Judge Moore’s place is open for the summah, did you, and that all the family came out yesta’day?  Well, they did, and if Bobby Moore isn’t ovah to my house by the time we get back home, we’ll go ovah to Bobby’s.”

As she spoke, she passed through the gate at the end of the avenue and turned into the public road, a wide pike with a railroad track on one side of it and a bridle-path on the other.  Two minutes’ brisk canter brought her to another gate, one that had been closed all winter, and one that she was greatly interested in, because it led to Judge Moore’s house.  Judge Moore was Rob’s grandfather, and she and Rob had played together every summer since she could remember.

The wide white gate was standing open now, and she drew rein, peering anxiously in.  She hoped for the sight of a familiar freckled face or the sound of a welcoming whoop.  But it was so still everywhere that all she saw was the squirrels playing hide and seek in the beech-grove around the house, and all she heard was the fearless cry, “Pewee! pewee!” of a little bird perched in a tree overarching the gate.  It balanced itself on the limb, leaning over and cocking its bright bead-like eyes at her, as if admiring the sight.

What it saw was a slender girl of eleven, taller than most children of that age, and more graceful.  There was a colour in her cheek like the delicate pink of a wild rose, and the big hazel eyes had a roguish twinkle in them, as they looked out fearlessly on the world from under the little Napoleon hat with its nodding cockade of locust blossoms.

“There’s nobody in sight, Tarbaby,” said the Little Colonel, “and there isn’t time to go in befo’ we’ve been to the post-office, so we might as well be travellin’ on.”

She was turning slowly away when down the pike behind her came the quick beat of a horse’s hoofs and a shrill whistle.  A twelve-year-old boy was riding toward her as fast as his big gray horse could carry him.  He was riding bareback, straight and lithe as a young Indian, his cap pushed to the back of his head.  He snatched it off with a flourish as he came within speaking distance of the Little Colonel, his freckled face all ashine with pleasure.

“Hello!  Lloyd,” he called, “I was just going to your house.”

“And I was looking for you, Bobby,” she answered, as informally as if it were only yesterday they had parted, instead of eight months before.

“Come and go down to the post-office with me.  I must take these lettahs.”

“All right,” said Rob, wheeling the gray horse around beside the black pony, and smiling broadly as he looked down into the Little Colonel’s welcoming eyes.  “You don’t know how good it feels to get back to the country again, Lloyd.  I could hardly wait for school to close, when I’d think about the fish waiting for me out here in the creek, and the wild strawberries getting ripe, and the horses just spoiling to be exercised.  It was more than I could stand.  What have you been doing all winter?”