“I’ve always wanted to lie and dream by a camp fire,” mused Diane, unconscious of a certain startled flutter of Aunt Agatha’s dressing gown, “to hear the wind rising in the forest and the lap of the lake against the shore.”  She wheeled abruptly, her eyes bright with excitement.  “And I’m going to try it.”

“To sleep by a lake in springtime!” gasped Aunt Agatha in great distress.  “Diane, I beg of you, don’t do it!  I once knew a man who slept out somewhere—­such a nice man, too!—­and something bit him—­a heron, I think, or a herring.  No!  It couldn’t have been either.  Isn’t it funny how I do forget!  Strangest thing!  But to sleep by a lake in springtime, think of that!”

“Oh, no, no, no, Aunt Agatha!” laughed Diane.  “I didn’t mean quite that.  I’m merely going back to the Glade farm to-morrow to—­” she glanced with furtive uncertainty at her aunt and halted.  “Aunt Agatha, I’ve been planning a gypsy cart!  There!  It’s out at last and I dreaded the telling!  When the summer comes, I’m going to travel about in my wonderful house on wheels and live in the free, wild, open country!”

“I can’t believe it!” said Aunt Agatha, staring.  “I can’t—­I won’t believe it!”

“Don’t be a goose!” begged the girl happily.  “All winter the voice of the open country has been calling—­calling!  There’s quicksilver in my veins.  See, Aunt Agatha, see the spring moon—­the ‘Planting Moon’ an Indian girl I used to know in college called it!  How gloriously it must be shining over silent woods and lakes, flashing silver on the pines and the ripples by the shore.  And the sea, the great, wide, beautiful, mysterious sea droning under a million stars!”

“Think of that!” breathed Aunt Agatha incredulously.  “A million stars!  I can’t believe it.  But dear me, Diane, there are seas and stars and moons and things right here in New York.”

With a swift flash of tenderness Diane slipped her arm about Aunt Agatha’s perturbed shoulders.

“You’re not going to mind at all!” she wheedled gently.  “I’m sure of it.  I’d have to go anyway.  It’s in my blood like the hint of summer in the air to-night.”

Aunt Agatha merely stared.  The Westfalls were congenital enigmas.

“A gypsy cart!” she gurgled presently, rising phoenix-like at last from a dumb-struck supineness.  “A gypsy cart!  Well!  A wheelbarrow wouldn’t have surprised me more, Diane, a wheelbarrow with a motor!”

“Don’t you remember Mrs. Jarley’s wagon?” reminded Diane.  “It had windows and curtains—­”

“Surely,” broke in Aunt Agatha with strained dignity, “you’re not going in for waxworks like Mrs. Jarley!”

“Dear, no!” laughed Diane, with a sparkle of amusement in her eyes.  “There are so many wild flowers and birds and legends to study I shouldn’t have time!”

“Great heavens,” murmured Aunt Agatha faintly, “my ears have gone queer like mother’s.”