posed her wish. At Caryl's they generally
followed whatever was suggested, with indolent acquiescence. Miss
Vanhorn, however, being a contrary planet revolving in an orbit of her
own, at first declined to go; there were important plants to finish. But
Mr. Dexter persuaded her to change her mind, and, with Anne, to
accompany him in a certain light carriage which he had ordered from the
next town, more comfortable than the Caryl red wagons, and not so heavy
as her own coupe. Miss Vanhorn liked to be comfortable, and she was
playing the part also of liking Gregory Dexter; she therefore accepted.
She knew perfectly well that Dexter's "light carriage" had not come from
the next town, but from New York; and she smiled at what she considered
the effort of this new man to conceal his lavishness. But she was quite
willing that he should spend his money to gain her favor (she having
already decided to give it to him), and therefore it was with
contentment that she stepped into the carriage--a model of its kind--on
the morning of the appointed day, and put up her glass to watch the
others ascending, by a little flight of steps, to the high table-land of
the red wagons. Mr. Heathcote was on horseback; he dismounted, however,
to assist Mrs. Bannert to her place. He raised his hat to Anne with his
usual quiet manner, but she returned his salutation with a bright smile.
She was grateful to him. Had he not been kind to her?

The picnic was like most picnics of the sort--heavy work for the
servants, languid amusement, not unmixed with only partially concealed
ennui, on the part of the guests. There was but little wandering away,
the participants being too few for much severance. They strolled through
the woods in long-drawn links; they went to see a view from a knoll;
they sang a few songs gently, faint pipings from the ladies, and nothing
from the men (Blum being absent) save the correct bass of Dexter, which
seemed very far down indeed in the cellars of melody, while the ladies
were on the high battlements. The conversation was never exactly allowed
to die out, yet it languished. Almost all would rather have been at
home. The men especially found small pleasure in sitting on the ground;
besides, a distinct consciousness that the attitude was not becoming.
For the American does not possess a taste for throwing himself heartily
down upon Mother Earth. He can camp; he can hunt, swim, ride, walk, use
Indian clubs, play base-ball, drive, ro