“Sometimes, when they grow careless.  Mr. Forster sprained his wrist the other day with a back-fire, which he ought to have avoided, and I heard of a horrible accident in Paris, when a chauffeur started his car with the clutch in gear, with the consequence that it dashed over a bridge into the Seine, and the occupants—­a lady and two little children—­were drowned before his eyes.  There’s no need to be nervous if you take proper care, but cars are not playthings to be trifled with.”

They had reached a part of the country which Miss Beach had known as a child.  She had not visited it since, and was interested to see again spots which had once been familiar.

“I remember the river perfectly,” she said.  “And that hill, with the wood where we used to get blackberries in the autumn.  I wonder if the wild daffodils still grow in Chipden Marsh!  It’s fifty years since I gathered them!  Shall we go and see?  They ought just to be out now, and it’s really not late yet.”

Winona was only too delighted to prolong the day’s outing, and would not have demurred if Aunt Harriet had proposed returning home by moonlight.  She caught eagerly at the suggestion of finding daffodils.  Though half-a-century had sped by Miss Beach remembered the way, and drove through many by-lanes to a tract of low-lying pasture land that bordered the river.  She had not forgotten the stile, which still remained as of yore, so leaving the car in the road they walked down the fields.  At first they were disappointed, but further on, beside the river, the Marsh might well have been called “Daffodil Meadow.”  Everywhere the lovely little wild Lent lilies were showing their golden trumpets in such profusion among the grass that the scene resembled Botticelli’s famous picture of spring.  Miss Beach said little, but her eyes shone with reminiscences.  Winona was in ecstasies, and ran about picking till her bunch was almost too big to hold.  The slanting afternoon sunlight fell on the water with a glinting, glistening sheen; the sallows overhanging the banks were yellow with pollen, the young pushing arum shoots and river herbs wore their tender early spring hue; the scene was an idyll in green and gold.  They were loath to leave, but time was passing, so, very reluctantly, they walked up the fields again to rejoin the car.  They had stowed their daffodils in the lunch basket, and Winona was peeping over the hedge to take a last look at the river, when an exclamation behind her made her turn round.  Miss Beach was leaning heavily against the car, her face was ashen gray, her lips were white and drawn.  She looked ready to faint.  Winona flew to her in a panic.

“What is it, Aunt Harriet?  Are you ill?  Get into the car and sit down.  Let me help you!”