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“Now where is he—the waif beastie?” said Andrew, peering ahead into the sunlight from his chauffeur’s seat, as, once more, that “yamf” rose, wild and desperate, between a cackle and bark of pain—heard above the purr of the smooth machine.

“It sounds—sounds as if he were near, quite near, oh! just around the bend ahead,” gasped Pemrose, sitting up, a statue, in the tonneau, where, side by side with Una—a rather pale and preoccupied “Jack”—she was fairly cushioned with glee over being off at last; off for a six weeks’ season of grace and growing among the Green Mountains, lying over the line in Vermont.

Andrew had vacation freedom in his veins, too. His employer had gone abroad. For several weeks he would be at nobody’s beck but his wife’s. Transformed into a boy again, by visions of fishing with a “canny” rod in mountain brooks, he had been singing softly to himself, at intervals, and much to the girls’ delight:

“Said the trout to the fluke,

Where is your new crook?”

For the last speeding quarter of a mile this had given way to a pleasing dirge of: