s another, and he
quickened his pace. His piano might be awaiting him in mute reproach; but
then, so did Eulaly's doughnuts await him, and there was no reproach in
those, at least, not until some time later. He fell to whistling a strain
of his overture, as he rode swiftly along, quite unconscious of the fact
that disaster, in the person of Miss Phebe McAlister, was riding quite as
swiftly to meet him.

Three miles from his boarding-place, the storm overtook him with a rush
which straight-way reduced the roads to the consistency of cream. He
looked about for shelter; but no shelter was at hand, and the road
meandered along before him uphill and down again with an easy nonchalance
which appeared to take no account of the pelting rain. It was hard riding
and dangerous, but he pushed on manfully, while the streams of water
trickled down his neck and along the bridge of his nose. As he reached
the crest of the hill, he saw before him, just crawling over the crest of
the opposite hill, a figure on a bicycle coming swiftly towards him.
Even at that distance, he could make out a bedraggled white suit, a limp
sailor hat and a vast pulpy bundle lashed to the handle-bars.

"Some country maiden, coming home from market," he said to himself. "I
Hope she is enjoying the shower."

Then of a sudden, he braced himself for a shock, for a bell was clanging
wildly, and a cry rang out upon his ears,--

"Oh, go away! Be careful! Get out of the way! Quick!"

He turned aside, out of the path of the flying wheel. It sounds a
cowardly thing to have done, and doubtless the knights of old would have
contrived a way of rescue. To the latter-day knight, however, there was
something inevitable in the on-coming of the wheel, with its rider's feet
kicking in a futile search for the pedals. It reminded him of his own
futile search for his _motif_. Both searchers seemed equally helpless to
attain their objects. Moreover, when a tall and muscular maiden sweeps
down upon one, leaving behind her a train of shrieks and scattered
phalanges, there is absolutely nothing for one to do but to get out of
her way as expeditiously as possible. No use in breaking two necks,
and--the critics were waiting for the symphonic poem.

He turned, then, to the right-hand edge of the road. Phebe was bouncing
along over the stones dangerously near the other gutter, and he already
was congratulating himself upon his escape. Then in a moment the
situation was changed. The