Betty Harris sat very still—her hands in her lap, her face lifted to the breeze that touched it swiftly and fingered her hair and swept past. Presently she looked up with a nod—as if the breeze reminded her. “I should like to see Mr. Achilles,” she said.  
“Not to-day,” answered Miss Stone, “we must do the errands for mother to-day, you know.”
 
The child’s face fell. “I wanted to see Mr. Achilles,” she said simply. She sat very quiet, her eyes on the lake. When she looked up, the eyes had brimmed over.
 
“I didn’t mean to,” said the child. She was searching for her handkerchief and the little cherries bobbed forward. “I didn’t know they would spill!” She had found the handkerchief now and was wiping them away, and she smiled at Miss Stone—a brave smile—that was going to be happy—
 
Miss Stone smiled back, with a little head-shake. “Foolish, Betty!”
 
“I didn’t expect them,” said the child, “I was just thinking about Mr. Achilles and they came—just came!—They just came!” she repeated sternly. She gave a final dab¹ to the handkerchief and stowed it away, sitting very erect² and still.
 
Miss Stone’s eyes studied her face. “We cannot go to-day,” she said, “—and to-morrow we start for the country. Perhaps—” she paused, thinking it out.
 
But the child’s eyes took it up—and danced. “He can make us a visit,” she said, nodding—“a visit of three weeks!” She smiled happily.
 
Miss Stone smiled back, shaking her head. “He could not leave the fruit-shop—”
 
But the child ignored it. “He will come,” she said quickly, “and we shall talk—and talk—about the gods, you know—” She lifted her eyes, “and we shall go in the fields—He will come!” She drew a deep sigh of satisfaction and lifted her head.
 
And Miss Stone, watching her, had a feeling of quick relief. She had known for a day or two that the child was not well, and they had hurried to get away to the fields. This was their last drive. To-morrow the horses would be sent on; and the next day they would all go—in the great touring car that would eat up the miles, and pass the horses, and reach Idlewood long before them.
 
No one except Betty and Miss Stone used the horses now. They would have been sold long ago had it not been for the child. The carriage was a part of her—and the clicking hoofs³ and soft-shining skins and arching necks. The sound of the hoofs on the pavement played little tunes⁴ for Betty. Her mother had protested against expense, and her father had grumbled⁵ a little; but if the child wanted a carriage rather than the great car that could whir her away in a breath, it must be kept.
 
It made a pretty picture this morning as it turned into the busier street and took its way among the dark, snorting cars that pushed and sped. It was like a delicate dream that shimmered⁷ and touched the pavement—or like a breath of the past... and the great cars skimmed around it and pushed on with quick honk⁸ and left it far behind.
 
But the carriage kept its way with unhurried rhythm—into the busy street and out again into a long avenue where great houses of cement and grey stone stood guard.
 
No one was in sight, up and down its clear length—only the morning sun shining on the grey stones and on the pavement—and the little jingling⁹ in the harness and the joyous¹⁰ child and the quiet grey woman beside her.
 
“I shall not be gone a minute, Betty,” said Miss Stone. The carriage had drawn¹¹ up before the great shadow of a house. She gave the child’s hand a little pat and stepped from the carriage.
 
But at the door there was a minute’s question and, with a nod to Betty, she stepped inside.
 
When the door opened ag............