"why, the thermometer's 80 deg. already."

Nevertheless, Joy went back and got the waterproof. She afterwards had
occasion to be very glad of it.

The party consisted of Mr. Breynton, Tom, Joy, Gypsy, Mr. and Mrs.
Hallam (this was the Mrs. Hallam who had once been Gypsy's teacher),
Sarah Rowe, and her brother Francis, who was home from college on
account of ill health, he said. Tom always coughed and arched his
eyebrows in a very peculiar way when this was mentioned, but Gypsy could
never find out what he did it for.

The day, as I said, was royal. The sky, the river, the delicate golden
green of the young leaves and grass, the lights and shadows on the
distant mountains, all were mellowed in together like one of Church's
pictures, and there was one of those spicy winds that Gypsy always
described by saying that "the angels had been showering great bottles of
fresh cologne-water into them."

The young people felt these things in a sort of dreamy, unconscious way,
but they were too busy and too merry to notice them in detail.

Joy was mounted safely on demure Billy, and Gypsy rode--not Mr. Burt's
iron-gray, for Tom claimed that--but a free, though manageable pony,
with just the arch of the neck, toss of the mane, and coquettish lifting
of the feet that she particularly fancied. The rest were variously
mounted: Francis Rowe rode a fiery colt that his father had just bought,
and the like of which was not to be seen in Yorkbury.

Up--up, winding on and away, through odors of fragrant pines and unseen
flowers, under the soft, green shadows, through the yellow lights. How
beautiful--how beautiful it was!

"Who'll race with me?" inquired Mr. Francis Rowe suddenly. "I call it an
uncommon bore, this doing nothing but looking at the trees. I say,
Breynton, the slope's easy here for a quarter of a mile; come ahead."

"No, thank you; I don't approve of racing up mountains."

Tom might have said he didn't approve of being beaten; the iron-gray was
no match for the colt, and he knew it.

"Who'll race?" persisted Mr. Francis, impatiently; "isn't there
anybody?"

"I will," said Gypsy, seriously enough.

"You!" said Tom; "why, the colt would leave that bay mare out of sight
before you could say Jack Robinson."

"Oh, I don't expect to beat. Of course that's out of the question. But I
should like the run; where's the goal, Francis?"

"That turn in the road where the tall fir-tree is, with those dead
limbs; you see?"

"