tall maples that were planted when Winslow was a boy.
But there was a wonderful green velvet lawn, and the tulips and sweet
peas and pansies that blazed softly nearer the house were as beautiful
as those over which Miss Lorania's gardener toiled and worried.

Mrs. Winslow was a little woman who showed the fierce struggle of her
early life only in the deeper lines between her delicate eyebrows and
the expression of melancholy patience in her brown eyes.

She always wore a widow's cap and a black gown. In the mornings she
donned a blue figured apron of stout and serviceable stuff; in the
afternoon, an apron of that sheer white lawn used by bishops and smart
young waitresses. Of an afternoon, in warm weather, she was accustomed
to sit on the eastern piazza, next to the Hopkins place, and rock as she
sewed. She was thus sitting and sewing when she beheld an extraordinary
procession cross the Hopkins lawn. First marched the tall trainer, Shuey
Cardigan, who worked by day in the Lossing furniture factory, and gave
bicycle lessons at the armory evenings. He was clad in a white sweater
and buff leggings, and was wheeling a lady's bicycle. Behind him walked
Miss Hopkins in a gray suit, the skirt of which only came to her
ankles--she, always so dignified in her toilets.

"Land's sakes!" gasped Mrs. Winslow, "if she ain't going to ride a bike!
Well, what next?"

What really happened next was the sneaking (for no other word does
justice to the cautious and circuitous movements of her) of Mrs. Winslow
to the stable, which had one window facing the Hopkins pasture. No cows
were grazing in the pasture. All around the grassy plateau twinkled a
broad brownish-yellow track. At one side of this track a bench had been
placed, and a table, pleasing to the eye, with jugs and glasses. Mrs.
Ellis, in a suit of the same undignified brevity and ease as Miss
Hopkins', sat on the bench supporting her own wheel. Shuey Cardigan was
drawn up to his full six feet of strength, and, one arm in the air, was
explaining the theory of the balance of power. It was an uncanny moment
to Lorania. She eyed the glistening, restless thing that slipped beneath
her hand, and her fingers trembled. If she could have fled in secret she
would. But since flight was not possible, she assumed a firm expression.
Mrs. Ellis wore a smile of studied and sickly cheerfulness.

"Don't you think it is very _high_?" said Lorania. "I can _never_ get up
on it!"

"It will be by