A broad-brimmed Panama hat, a suit of navy-blue flannel, and a pair of riding-boots completed his equipment.  A field-glass in a leather case was swung by a strap over his shoulder, and in the breast pocket of his blouse he carried a small compass to guide him on his journey due north.

The young man’s costume went very well with his frank, refined face, and twenty-three years.  A dead-gold mustache, pointed at the ends and sweeping at a level right and left, like a swallow’s wings, gave him something of a military air; there was a martial directness, too, in the glance of his clear gray eyes, undimmed as yet with looking too long on the world.  There could not have been a better figure for the saddle than Lynde’s—­slightly above the average height, straight as a poplar, and neither too spare nor too heavy.  Now and then, as he passed a farm-house, a young girl hanging out clothes in the front yard—­for it was on a Monday—­would pause with a shapeless snowdrift in her hand to gaze curiously at the apparition of a gallant young horseman riding by.  It often happened that when he had passed, she would slyly steal to the red gate in the lichen-covered stone wall, and follow him with her palm-shaded eyes down the lonely road; and it as frequently happened that he would glance back over his shoulder at the nut-brown maid, whose closely clinging, scant drapery gave her a sculpturesque grace to which her unconsciousness of it was a charm the more.

These flashes of subtile recognition between youth and youth—­these sudden mute greetings and farewells—­reached almost the dimension of incidents in that first day’s eventless ride.  Once Lynde halted at the porch of a hip-roofed, unpainted house with green paper shades at the windows, and asked for a cup of milk, which was brought him by the nut-brown maid, who never took her flattering innocent eyes off the young man’s face while he drank—­sipping him as he sipped the milk; and young Lynde rode away feeling as if something had really happened.

More than once that morning he drew up by the roadside to listen to some lyrical robin on an apple-bough, or to make friends with the black-belted Durham cows and the cream-colored Alderneys, who came solemnly to the pasture wall and stared at him with big, good-natured faces.  A row of them, with their lazy eyes and pink tongues and moist india-rubber noses, was as good as a play.

At noon that day our adventureless adventurer had reached Bayley’s Four-Corners, where he found provender for himself and Mary at what had formerly been a tavern, in the naive stage-coach epoch.  It was the sole house in the neighborhood, and was occupied by the ex-landlord, one Tobias Sewell, who had turned farmer.  On finishing his cigar after dinner, Lynde put the saddle on Mary, and started forward again.  It is hardly correct to say forward, for Mary took it into her head to back out of Bayley’s Four-Corners, a feat which she performed to the unspeakable amusement of Mr. Sewell and a quaint old gentleman, named Jaffrey, who boarded in the house.