“Oh, no.”

“Then you will?”

Her hesitation was slight.  “I should like it.”

“And can’t we drive about a bit?  You’ll show me the old places?  It is such a perfect day.  I hope you haven’t anything else to do.”

She had not.  “I’ll go with Mr. Dalton, Calvin.”

Calvin, who had watched over more than one generation of Bannister girls, and knew what was expected of them, made a worried protest.

“Hit’s gwine rain, Miss Becky.”

Dalton dismissed him with a wave of the hand.  “I won’t let her get wet,” he lifted Becky from the surrey and walked with her to his car.

Kemp, who had come down in the house truck with Madge’s trunks, stood stiff and straight by the door.  Being off with Miss MacVeigh he was on with Miss Bannister.  Girls might come and girls might go in his master’s life, but Kemp had an air of going on forever.

When he had seated Becky, Dalton stepped back and gave hurried instructions.

“At four, Kemp,” he said, “or if you are later, wait until we come.”

“Very well, sir.”  Kemp stood statuesquely at attention until the car whirled on.  Then he sat down on the station platform, and talked to the agent.  He was no longer a servant but a man.

As the big car whirled up the hill, Becky, looking out upon the familiar landscape, saw it with new eyes.  There was a light upon it which had never been for her on sea or land.  She had not believed that in all the world there could be such singing, blossoming radiance.

They drove through the old mill town and the stream was bright under the willows.  They stopped on the bridge for a moment to view the shining bend.

“There are old chimneys under the vines,” Becky said; “doesn’t it seem dreadful to think of all those dead houses——­”

George gave a quick turn.  “Why think of them?  You were not made to think of dead houses, you were made to live.”

On and on they went, up the hills and down into the valleys, between rail fences which were a riot of honeysuckle, and with the roads in places rough.  Under their wheels, with the fields gold with stubble, the sky a faint blue, with that thick look on the horizon.

George talked a great deal about himself.  Perhaps if he had listened instead to Becky he might have learned things which would have surprised him.  But he really had very interesting things to tell, and Becky was content to sit in silence and watch his hands on the wheel.  They were small hands, and for some tastes a bit too plump and well-kept, but Becky found no fault with them.  She felt that she could sit there forever, and watch his hands and listen to his clear quick voice.

At last George glanced at the little clock which hung in front of him.  “Look here,” he said, “I told Kemp to have tea for us at a place which I found once when I walked in the woods.  A sort of summer house which looks towards Monticello.  Do you know it?”