Bell and Gertrude, in trim short skirts and gaiters, sat already perched, ready for the start; and Phil and Gerald were putting a last touch to their shining metal-work.

Mrs. Merryweather came out on the steps, with Kitty by her side.

“Here are my letters, dear people,” she said.  “And don’t forget the boots, please; they are very important.”

“May one inquire what boots?” asked Mr. Merryweather.

“I really have no idea!” replied his wife.  “Somebody said at breakfast that you must be sure to remember the boots, and dwelt on their importance; therefore I mention them.”

“Ou avez-vous procure ce chapeau?” inquired Gerald, politely.

“My dear Gerald, you know that I will not endure slang that is less than fifty years old.”

“It isn’t slang, Mother!  At least it may be; but I want to know, because, really, you know, ma’am, when it comes to baskets—­”

Mrs. Merryweather put up her hand, and removed her head-gear.  “Dear me!” she said, “it is a basket, sure enough.  That is very curious!  Why—­why then, I must have picked the raspberries into my hat.”

A shout of laughter, in which Mrs. Merryweather joined placidly, greeted this announcement.  “I put plenty of green leaves in it,” she said; “it will be all right.  But I sent it to the minister’s wife, and I fear she will be surprised.  My dear Gertrude, have you learned your Latin lesson, that I see you starting off so freely?”

“Yes, mother,” said Gertrude, sadly.  “I learned it, and it was a detestable lesson.  I am so tired of hearing that Titus Labienus was stationed on a hill!”

“I know!” chimed in Phil.  “I remember when I was in Caesar, about forty years ago, and Titus Labby was on the hill then.  It’s my belief he got stuck there, and was afraid to come down.”

“That is curious!” said Mrs. Merryweather, meditatively.  “Always on a hill; why, so he is!  That is rather interesting, don’t you think so?”

“With all respect, I do not!” said Mr. Merryweather.  “I desire to depart.  If Caesar had had a wheel, he would not have been so tedious.”

“Oh, jolly!” cried Gerald.  “Caesar commanded to let scoot the legions through the morasses and bogges the bogs.  Then came Vercingetorix on a ’91 Columbia, weighing seventy-three pounds, and said, ‘How in time am I to get up this hill?’ Then spake to him Caesar, and said these words,—­Get out, you Ferguson!”

For Ferguson, swiftly departing, had launched a kick at his brother in passing, nearly sending him from his seat.  Gerald whirled off in pursuit; the others followed more soberly, and the whole party disappeared round the curve of the road.

Hildegarde looked after them rather dolefully.  A year ago a girl on a bicycle was a shocking thing to our heroine; she shook her little head severely, and said that nothing would induce her to mount one.  Somehow her views had changed since she had seen the Merryweathers on theirs.  She began to think that it would be uncommonly pleasant to go skimming along like a swallow, swooping down the hills and whirling along the levels.  “The nearest approach to flying that this generation will see,” Mr. Merryweather called it, and Hilda inclined to think he was right.  However—­