crossing the short green turf hurriedly as if the day were too far spent for any loitering. The magnitude of the plan for taking a whole day of pleasure confronted him seriously, but the weather was fair, and his wife, whose disapproval could not have been set aside, had accepted and even smiled upon the great project. It was inevitable now that he and the children should go to Topham Corners. Mrs. Hilton had the pleasure of waking them, and telling the news.

In a few minutes they came frisking out to talk over the great plans. The cattle were already fed, and their father was milking. The only sign of high festivity was the wagon pulled out into the yard, with both seats put in as if it were Sunday; but Mr. Hilton still wore his everyday clothes, and Susan Ellen suffered instantly from disappointment.

“Ain’t we goin’, father?” she asked, complainingly, but he nodded and smiled at her, even though the cow, impatient to get to pasture, kept whisking her rough tail across his face. He held his head down and spoke cheerfully, in spite of this vexation.

“Yes, sister, we’re goin’ certain, an’ goin’ to have a great time, too.” Susan Ellen thought that he seemed like a boy at that delightful moment, and felt new sympathy and pleasure at once. “You go an’ help mother about breakfast an’ them things; we want to get off quick’s we can. You coax mother now, both on ye, an’ see if she won’t go with us.”

“She said she wouldn’t be hired to,” responded Susan Ellen. “She says it’s goin’ to be hot, an’ she’s laid out to go over an’ see how her aunt Tamsen Brooks is this afternoon.”

The father gave a little sigh; then he took heart again. The truth was that his wife made light of the contemplated pleasure, and, much as he usually valued her companionship and approval, it was sure that they should have a better time without her. It was impossible, however, not to feel guilty of disloyalty at the thought. Even though she might be completely unconscious of his best ideals, he only loved her and the ideals the more, and bent his energies to satisfying her indefinite expectations. His wife still kept much of that youthful beauty which Susan Ellen seemed likely to reproduce.

An hour later the best wagon was ready, and the great expedition set forth. The little dog sat apart, and barked as if it fell entirely upon him to voice the general excitement. Both seats were in the wagon, but the empty place testified to Mrs. Hilton’s unyielding disposition. She had wondered why one broad seat would not do, but John Hilton meekly suggested that the wagon looked better. The little girls sat on the back seat dressed alike in their Sunday hats of straw with blue ribbons, and their little plaid shawls pinned neatly about their small shoulders. They wore grey thread gloves, and sat very straight. Susan Ellen was half a head the taller, but otherwise, from behind, they looked much alike. As for their father, he was in his Sunday best—a plain black coat, and a winter hat of felt, which was heavy and rusty- looking for that warm early-summer day. He had it in mind to buy a new straw hat at Topham, so that this with the turnip-seed and the hoe made three important reasons for going.

“Remember an’ lay off your shawls when you get there, an’ carry them over your arms,” said the mother, clucking like an excited hen to her chickens. “They’ll do to keep the dust off your new dresses goin’ and comin’. An’ when you eat your dinners don’t get spots on you, an’ don’t point at folks as you ride by, an’ stare, or they’ll know you came from the country. An’ John, you call into Cousin Ad’line Marlow’s an’ see how they all be, an’ tell her I expect her over certain to stop a while before hayin’. It always eases her phthisic to git up here on the highland, an’ I’ve got a new notion about doin’ over her best-room carpet sence I see her that’ll save rippin’ one breadth. An’ don’t come home all wore out; an’, John, don’t you go an’ buy me no kickshaws to fetch home. I ain’t a child, an’ you ain’t got no money to waste. I expect you’ll go, like’s not, an’ buy you some kind of a foolish boy’s hat; do look an’ see if it’s reasonable good straw, an’ won’t splinter all off round the edge. An’ you mind, John—”

“Yes, yes, hold on!” cried John, impatiently; then he cast a last affectionate, reassuring look at her face, flushed with the hurry and responsibility of starting them off in proper shape. “I wish you was goin’ too,” he said, smiling. “I do so!” Then the old horse started, and they went out at the bars, and began the