l try again when we come to a quiet road."

Rather thankful not to have to venture her 'prentice skill in the narrow
winding street, Winona gave the wheel into her aunt's more experienced
hands. It was only _pro tem._, however, for when they were once more in
the open country Miss Beach continued the lesson, making her start and
stop several times just for practice.

"I believe you know the routine now," she said. "It's the motorist's
first catechism. Remember those cardinal rules, and you can't go so far
wrong."

"Do experienced people ever forget them?" asked Winona.

"Sometimes, when they grow careless. Mr. Forster sprained his wrist the
other day with a back-fire, which he ought to have avoided, and I heard
of a horrible accident in Paris, when a chauffeur started his car with
the clutch in gear, with the consequence that it dashed over a bridge
into the Seine, and the occupants--a lady and two little children--were
drowned before his eyes. There's no need to be nervous if you take
proper care, but cars are not playthings to be trifled with."

They had reached a part of the country which Miss Beach had known as a
child. She had not visited it since, and was interested to see again
spots which had once been familiar.

"I remember the river perfectly," she said. "And that hill, with the
wood where we used to get blackberries in the autumn. I wonder if the
wild daffodils still grow in Chipden Marsh! It's fifty years since I
gathered them! Shall we go and see? They ought just to be out now, and
it's really not late yet."

Winona was only too delighted to prolong the day's outing, and would not
have demurred if Aunt Harriet had proposed returning home by moonlight.
She caught eagerly at the suggestion of finding daffodils. Though
half-a-century had sped by Miss Beach remembered the way, and drove
through many by-lanes to a tract of low-lying pasture land that bordered
the river. She had not forgotten the stile, which still remained as of
yore, so leaving the car in the road they walked down the fields. At
first they were disappointed, but further on, beside the river, the
Marsh might well have been called "Daffodil Meadow." Everywhere the
lovely little wild Lent lilies were showing their golden trumpets in
such profusion among the grass that the scene resembled Botticelli's
famous picture of spring. Miss Beach said little, but her eyes shone
with reminiscences. Winona was in ecstasies, and ran about picking till