Thus it was the days flew by on romantic wings, each seemingly more filled with adventurous happiness than the last. Up with the promising rosy dawn, a mouthful of oats for the bonnie mare, a bit of bread and a draught of wine for the roadsters, the van packed, and heigh-ho for the alluring highway! It was a joyous, beautiful, glorious road with never a sigh nor a fret, for were they not homeward bound with hearts set to rights?

All day long they idled, never hurrying, stopping to gather flowers, fruit, or to admire a tree, a river, a valley, or a hill. Sometimes they fished for a dinner, or accepted the friendly invitation of a countryman to his table. Ever and anon they would sell a yard of lace, a ribbon, a trinket, a pack of thread. Often they sang, or chattered about kings and cabbages and things. Nance walked the greater way, but occasionally, tiring, she climbed into the cradling arms of Columbine and from the apron-like seat drove Rogue. In the early afternoon they would rest for an hour or two, sometimes more, if they were tired and the shade enticing. An early nightfall always found them securely camped waiting only for the darkness in which to go to sleep, Nance to dream on her couch in the cart; the pedler to lie upon the soft sweet-scented earth beneath a sheltering tree.

Aye, but they were wonderful, never-to-be-forgotten days! Glad halcyon days! Happy days in Arcady. Days of strange and gentle adventures.... Upon long-sought, rare days life gives us a dream come true, whose realization is even more wonderful than was the fancy. Such days were these.

It was the third or fourth day of such a vagabondish journey that found them at nightfall approaching a beech wood. Here, hidden from the road, beside a clear cool branch, in a charming little dingle about a hundred yards from an old country meeting-house, they pitched their camp. After things were made snug, Jean FranÇois left for a house which could be seen a quarter of a mile away, proposing to buy eggs, cheese, and bread.

Left to herself, Nance discovered a quiet, limpid pool, not far from the van, which appeared to be some two or three feet deep. Testing its temperature with her hand and finding it pleasurable, she dropped her petticoats and stepped gracefully into the water. Her fair body against the dusky twilight seemed that of a naiad. As she stooped, from time to time, and sported in the kissing ripples of her own creation, the loveliness of her was such as to have held captive every faun the greenwood knew. Then she climbed upon the grassy bank and stood for the warm winds of summer to dry her. O, how wonderful it was to be free!

Was she not a part of the great life? Then she thought of the old days, and smiled as she covered her breasts with her hands and sought her clothing.

Upon dressing she stretched herself at full length beneath a tree and, following her thoughts of the bygone times, began thinking of home folk, Oldmeadow, and Dr. Charles Reubelt King. In the light of the simple, primitive life she now led, coupled with many days of absence, his conduct did not appear quite as disagreeable as at first. Her grandfather was already forgiven. Of course dear conventional Aunt Barbara did not count. She laughed aloud when she thought of how shocked Oldmeadow would be when she came walking along the river road with Jean FranÇois. Then, for the first time, it occurred to her to wonder what her reception would be. She dwelt secure in the knowledge that she had been born and reared in the village. To have been an actual son or daughter of Oldmeadow was a virtue which would cover unnumbered sins. The world was judged harshly, but special privileges belonged to natives. Last of all she wondered if Dr. King would ever again dare to kiss her as he had the day before she ran away.

Suddenly she sat up, listening intently. She could hear Jean FranÇois talking to someone as he approached through the trees. She sprang to her feet, alarmed. No one had ever before intruded upon their seclusion, and she resented it now. She was in no very gracious mood for visitors as she stepped into the open that she might see at some distance the companion of the pedler.

There was with Jean FranÇois a tall, angular dusky-hued man who walked very erect and with a certain air of command. His forehead was noticeably high and broad; his thin hair as black as a gipsy's; his beard, of the same color, was neatly trimmed, soft, and fell to his waist; his brown eyes sparkled with humor and kindness.

"This gentleman," said Jean FranÇois, presenting him to Nance, "is the parson of the little church yonder. He lives in the cottage down the road and gave me this," indicating by a motion of his hand the provisions he was now spreading upon the grass.

Nance bowed and with some distrust inspected the visitor. He bowed graciously, smiling the while.

"I know your grandfather," he ventured in a pleasant voice, "and I have seen you in Oldmeadow."

"O, yes, I remember you," said Nance quickly, yet without thawing. "Grandfather likes you," she added. Then, frowning and with a touch of sarcasm:

"I suppose you will disapprove of me?"

"Why should I?" he inquired with surprise.

"You are a parson," she said.

"O, I'd forgotten," he laughed, showing a mouthful of splendid teeth. "I suppose I'd better lecture you?" he queried.

Nance laughed, too. His merriment was catching. Then suddenly, with a questioning glance of reproach at Jean FranÇois:

"You did not know I was here?"

"Certainly not," he replied. "I love the road."

He seemed to think this sufficient explanation. But Nance was a trifle puzzled.

"A preacher who loves the road," and she shook her head doubtfully. "If you love it, why don't you follow it then?" She seemed to think that this was sufficient proof that at least he loved but little.

"Why don't you follow it?" she repeated with a touch of conclusiveness, as if no more could be said upon the subject. "St. Francis did.... I love it and I have chosen it. The road is my religion," here she looked up with a suggestion of defiance in her eyes as if anticipating his disapproval, but, upon seeing nothing save interest upon his face, she continued, "My camp-fires at night are a flaming offering upon his altar, the earth, to Pan.... Why don't you take the road?"

Nance was unconsciously posing a trifle.

"It calls me strongly sometimes," he replied, and his eyes became tender and sought the soft shadowy highway through the growing night. The wander-longing was in his face.... Then, quickly recalling himself, he exclaimed:

"Besides I have my work to do! It could not be done on the road.... At least," he hastily corrected, "I could not do the task I have planned for myself." There was a simple, unconscious note of courage in his voice.

"Why?" asked Nance in wonder.

"There are many and profound reasons. It would not prove pleasant to speak of them. But for one of the least: Do you think," said he, "that vagabondia would mix with the average conventional church community?"

"Become the pastor of vagabondia," she suggested, smiling.

"It would be a hopeless task," he returned.

"How do you stand it?" she inquired, somewhat irrelevantly.

"Why, I've my home and my work," said he, now on the defensive. "It's only occasionally that I hunger for the traffic lands. Then, like to-night, I take my gipsying vicariously."

Jean FranÇois straightened up from his work over the fire.

"Jesus, the good Master," said he, "loved the roads, the Judean hills, the laughing Jordan, and to sleep out under the stars at night, did he not?"

"True," replied the parson.

"He possessed the genuine poetic spirit of vagabondia, my son," continued the pedler, who was older than the visitor. "He followed the roads and sought the hillsides for his couch. It's many a joyous, irresponsible, nomadic journey he made over the countryside. He loved the poor, the common people, the oppressed, the struggler—all save the struggler at the needle's eye—and the happy sunny hills of Arcady."

"I know, my friend," was the reply.

"I also know your point of view, comrade," said Jean FranÇois, suddenly melting into sympathy. "You are right. It could not be done. At least in America. You would have to either give up your walk or your talk. The people'd make you.... Let's see—they would call it a sort of highway heresy.... Now, things are vastly different in my sunny France."

"And in Paradise, too, I hope," smiled the parson, with good humor.

The supper had been removed from the fire, and awaited them spread temptingly upon the grass. The three of them sat facing the flames so they might get the full light upon what the pedler termed Pan's table. They dropped their more serious subject, chattering playfully like a group of care-free children at play.... An hour later this new-found friend arose to go. He extended his hands to them, saying,

"Here's luck, love, and a prayer.... Good night."

They watched him walk leisurely down the road until he was lost from sight in the night. In the distance they could see the twinkling friendly light which called him to his home, and to his task. And they knew that he went gladly.