pe you will, Miss Glidden--"

The portly lady saw something up the street at that moment.

"Oh my! What is it? Dear me! It's coming! Run! We'll all be
killed! Oh my!"

She had turned quite around, while she was speaking, and was once more
looking up the street; but the dark-haired girl had neither flinched
nor wavered. She had only sent a curious, inquiring glance in the
direction of the shouts and the rattle and the cloud of dust that were
coming swiftly toward them.

"A runaway team," she said, quietly. "Nobody's in the wagon."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Glidden; but Mary began to move away, looking
not at her but at the runaway, and she did not hear the rest. "Mary
Ogden's too uppish.--Somebody'll be killed, I know they will!--She's
got to be taken down.--There they come!--Dressed too well for a
blacksmith's daughter. Doesn't know her place.--Oh dear! I'm so
frightened!"

Perhaps she had been wise in getting behind the nearest tree. It was a
young maple, two inches through, lately set out, but it might have
stopped a pair of very small horses. Those in the road were
large--almost too large to run well. They were well-matched grays, and
they came thundering along in a way that was really fine to behold;
heads down, necks arched, nostrils wide, reins flying, the wagon behind
them banging and swerving--no wonder everybody stood still and, except
Mary Ogden, shouted, "Stop 'em!" One young fellow, across the street,
stood still only until the runaways were all but close by him. Then he
darted out into the street, not ahead of them but behind them. No man
on earth could have stopped those horses by standing in front of them.
They could have charged through a regiment. Their heavy, furious
gallop was fast, too, and the boy who was now following them, must have
been as light of foot as a young deer.

"Hurrah! Hurrah! Go it, Jack! Catch 'em! Bully for you!" arose from
a score of people along the sidewalk, as he bounded forward.

"It's Jack! Oh dear me! But it's just like him! There! He's in!"
exclaimed Mary Ogden, her dark eyes dancing proudly.

"Why, it's that good-for-nothing brother of Mary Ogden. He's the
blacksmith's boy. I'm afraid he will be hurt," remarked Miss Glidden,
kindly and benevolently; but all the rest shouted "Hurrah!" again.

Fierce was the strain upon the young runner, for a moment, and then his
hands were on the back-board of the bouncing wagon. A tug, a spring, a