her hat and shawl. As her cousin approached she hastened down the
steps, past Van Berg, exclaiming:

"Oh, thank you, Ik! How good of you! I was dying for a ride.
Don't trouble yourself. I can get in without aid," and she sprang
lightly into the buggy before her cousin could utter a word.

He turned with a look of comic dismay and deprecation to his friend,
who stood laughing on the steps. Ida, also, could not resist
her inclination to catch a glimpse of the artist's chagrin and
disappointment, but she was provoked beyond measure to find him
acting as if Stanton were the victim rather than himself. As the
sweep of the road again brought them in view of the piazza, this
impression was confirmed by seeing Van Berg stroll carelessly away,
complacently puffing his cigar as if he had already dismissed her
from his mind.

"Really," grumbled Stanton, "I never had beauty and happiness thrust
upon me so unexpectedly before."

"Very well then," retorted Ida; "stop your horses and thrust me
out into the road. I'd rather go back, even if I have to walk."

"Oh, no! there is to be no going back for two hours or more. I
once cured a horse of running away by making him run long after he
wanted to stop."

"You seem to be learning your friend's hateful manners."

"I asked you this morning if you would take a drive, and you