On this day Miss Lord proved an exceedingly agreeable companion to them all, even Irene forgetting for the time the strange expression she had surprised on Agatha’s face at the time she found the letter.  Mary Louise seemed to have quite forgotten that letter, for she did not again refer to it; but Irene, who had studied it closely in the seclusion of her own room that very night, had it rather persistently in mind and her eyes took on an added expression of grave and gentle commiseration whenever she looked at Mary Louise’s unconscious face.

“It is much more fun,” observed Peter Conant at breakfast the nest morning, “to ride to and from the station in a motor car than to patronize Bill Coombs’ rickety, slow-going omnibus.  But I can’t expect our fair neighbor to run a stage line for my express accommodation.”

“Will Morrison’s motor car is here in the shed,” said Mary Louise, and then she told of their conversation with Bub concerning it.  “He says he has driven a car ever since he was eleven years old,” she added.

“I wondered what that boy was good for,” asserted the lawyer, “yet the very last thing I would have accused him of is being a chauffeur.”

“Why don’t you put on the tires and use the car?” asked Aunt Hannah.

“H-m.  Morrison didn’t mention the car to me.  I suppose he forgot it.  But I’m sure he’d be glad to have us use it.  I’ll talk with the boy.”

Bub was found near the Talbot cottage in the gully.  When Mr. Conant and Mary Louise approached him, soon after finishing their breakfast, he was—­as usual—­diligently whittling.

“They tell me you understand running Mr. Morrison’s car,” began the lawyer.

Bub raised his eyes a moment to the speaker’s face but deemed an answer unnecessary.

“Is that true?” with an impatient inflection.

“Kin run any car,” said Bub.

“Very well.  Show me where the tires are and we will put them on.  I want you to drive me to and from Millbank, hereafter.”

Bub retained his seat and whittled.

“Hev ye got a order from Will Morrison, in writin’?” he demanded.

“No, but he will be glad to have me use the machine.  He said everything at the Lodge was at my disposal.”

“Cars,” said Bub, “ain’t like other things.  A feller’ll lend his huntin’-dog, er his knife, er his overcoat; but he’s all-fired shy o’ lendin’ his car.  Ef I runned it for ye, Will might blame me.”

Mr. Conant fixed his dull stare on the boy’s face, but Bub went on whittling.  However, in the boy’s inmost heart was a keen desire to run that motor car, as had been proposed.  So he casually remarked: 

“Ef ye forced me, ye know, I’d jus’ hev to do it.  Even Will couldn’t blame me ef I were forced.”

Mr. Conant was so exasperated that the hint was enough.  He seized the boy’s collar, lifted him off the stump and kicked him repeatedly as he propelled his victim toward the house.