have left in
this world. I have been thinking, and thinking about everything, and I
want to go to him. Whatever has come between us will vanish as soon as
he sees me, I am sure of that. I do not know why he did not want me to
come back to him, but he will want me now, and I should like to start
immediately without anybody seeing me."

"But a bicycle!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "You can't go that way. I
will send you in the carriage."

"No, no, no," cried Olive; "I want to go quietly. I want to go so that I
can leave my wheel at the door and go right in. I have a short
walking-skirt, and I can wear that. Please let me have the bicycle."

Mrs. Easterfield made Olive sit down and she talked to her, but there
was no changing the girl's determination to go to her uncle, to go
alone, and to go immediately.

_CHAPTER XV_

_Olive's Bicycle Trip._

Despite Olive's desire to set forth immediately on her bicycle trip, it
was past the middle of the afternoon when she left Broadstone. She went
out quietly, not by the usual driveway, and was soon upon the turnpike
road. As she sped along the cool air upon her face refreshed her; and
the knowledge that she was so rapidly approaching the dear old
toll-gate, where, even if she did not find her uncle at the house, she
could sit with old Jane until he came back, gave her strength and
courage.

Up a long hill she went, and down again to the level country. Then there
was a slighter rise in the road, and when she reached its summit she
saw, less than a mile away, the toll-gate surrounded by its trees, the
thick foliage of the fruit-trees in the garden, the little tollhouse and
the long bar, standing up high at its customary incline upon the
opposite side of the road. Down the little hill she went; and then,
steadily and swiftly, onward. Presently she saw that some one was on the
piazza by the side of the tollhouse; his back was toward her, he was
sitting in his accustomed armchair; she could not be mistaken; it was
her uncle.

Now and then, while upon the road, she had thought of what she should
say when she first met him, but she had soon dismissed all ideas of
preconceived salutations, or explanations. She would be there, and that
would be enough. Her father's letter was in her pocket, and that was too
much. All she meant to do was to glide up to that piazza, spring up the
steps, and present herself to her uncle's astonished gaze before he had
any idea that any one wa