"PETER," demanded Mrs. Crane, stopping short on the horse-block, "who's going to run that thing?"

"I am."

"Not with me in it. You don't know how."

"My dear, I've been learning the business for five weeks."

"So that's what has taken you to Bancroft every afternoon for all that time?"

"That's exactly what," admitted Mr. Black.

"And you're sure," queried Mrs. Crane, doubtfully, "that you understand all those fixings?"

"Every one of them."

"Will you promise to go slow?"

"There's a fine for exceeding the speed limit," twinkled Mr. Black.

"Well, I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Crane, permitting her patient brother to help her into the vehicle. "My! but these cushions are soft."

"Yes," said Bettie, "it's just like sitting on baking powder biscuits before they're baked."

"How do you know?" asked Mr. Black.

"Because I've tried it. You see, ministers' wives are dreadfully interrupted persons, and one night when Mother was making biscuits some visitors came. Instead of popping one of the pans into the oven, mother dropped it on a dining-room chair on her way to the door and forgot all about it. When I came in to supper that chair was at my place and I flopped right down on those biscuits! And I had to stay sitting on them because Father had asked one of the visitors—such a particular-looking person—to stay to tea; and I knew that Mother wouldn't want a perfectly strange man to know about it."

"That was certainly thoughtful," smiled Mr. Black. "Now, is every one comfortable? If she is, we'll go for those extra wraps."

The new machine rolled down the street and turned the corner in the neatest way imaginable. Mrs. Crane looked decidedly uneasy at first; but when Mr. Black had successfully steered the birthday present past the ice wagon, a coal team, a prancing pony and two street cars, she folded the hands that had been nervously clutching the side of the car and leaned back with a relieved sigh.

But when Mabel asked a question, Mrs. Crane silenced her quickly.

"Don't talk to him," she implored. "There's no telling what might happen to us if he were to take any part of his mind off that—that helm, for even a single second. Don't even look at him."

What did happen was this. After the extra wraps had been collected and donned, Mr. Black carried his charges all the way to Bancroft, a distance of seventeen miles, in perfect safety. The road was good, the day was mild and the only team they passed obligingly turned in at its own gate before they reached it. They stopped in front of the biggest and best hotel in Bancroft.

"Everybody out for dinner," ordered Mr. Black.

"But, Peter," expostulated Mrs. Crane, hanging back, bashfully, "I'm in my every-day clothes."

"Well, this isn't Sunday; and you always look well dressed. You're a very neat woman, Sarah."

"Well I am neat, but black alpaca isn't silk even if my sleeves are this year's. And for goodness' sake, Peter, don't ask me to pronounce any of that bill of fare if it isn't plain every-day English, for you know there isn't a French fiber in my tongue. You order for me. There's only one thing I can't eat and that's parsnips."

It was a very nice dinner and plain English enough to suit even matter-of-fact Mrs. Crane. After the first few bashful moments, the four girls chattered so merrily that all the guests at other tables caught themselves listening and smiling sympathetically.

"I never ate a really truly hotel dinner before," confided Bettie, happily.

"And to think," sighed Jean, contentedly, "of doing it without knowing you were going to! That always makes things nicer."

"And I never expected to ride in a navy-blue automobile," murmured Marjory.

"Or to have four kinds of potatoes," breathed Mabel, who sat half surrounded by empty dishes—"little birds' bath-tubs," she called them.

"You must be a vegetarian," smiled Mr. Black.

"N-no," denied Mabel. "Only a potatorian."

"Mabel!" objected Marjory. "There isn't any such word."

"Yes, there is," returned Mabel, calmly. "I just made it."

"Well, I'm sure," sighed Mrs. Crane, "I never expected to have any such birthday as this."

"You see," said Mr. Black, giving his sister's plump elbow a kindly squeeze, "this is a good many birthdays rolled into one."

"It seems hard," mourned Mabel, who was earnestly scanning the bill of fare, "to read about so many kinds of dessert when you've room enough left for only three. I wish I'd began saving space sooner."

"You're in luck," laughed Bettie. "A very small, thin one is all I can manage—pineapple ice, I guess."

"Anyway," said Marjory, "I shan't choose bread pudding. We have that every Tuesday and Friday at home. Aunty Jane has regular times for everything, so I always know just what's coming. I'm going to have something different—hot mince pie, I guess."

"Ice-cream," said Jean, "with hot chocolate sauce."

"Bring me," said Mabel, turning to the waiter, "hot mince pie, ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce and a pineapple ice with little cakes."

"Bring little cakes for everybody," added Mr. Black.

"I declare," said Mrs. Crane, "I don't know when I've been so hungry."

"Now," remarked Mr. Black, half an hour later, "I think we'd better be jogging along toward home because it won't be as warm when the sun goes down and I want to show you some of the sights in Bancroft—there's a pretty good candy shop a few blocks from here—before we start toward Lakeville. We can run down in about an hour."

"Peter," demanded Mrs. Crane, "what is that speed limit?"

"About eight miles an hour."

"Hum—and it's seventeen miles——"

"Now, Sarah, don't go to doing arithmetic—you know you were never very good at it. If I were to keep strictly within that limit you'd all want to get out and push. Got all your wraps? Whose muff is this? Here's a glove. Whose neck belongs to this pussy-cat thing? Here's a handkerchief and two more gloves—Well, well! It's a good thing you had somebody along to gather up your duds. What! My hat? Why, that's so, I did have a cap—here it is in my coat pocket."

There was still time after the pleasant ride home for a good frolic with Rosa Marie and a cozy meal with Mrs. Crane; strangely enough, everybody was again hungry enough to enjoy the big birthday cake and the good apple-sauce that went with it. Then Mr. Black carried them all home in the motor car and delivered each damsel at her own door. But only one stayed delivered, for the other three immediately ran around the block to meet at Jean's always popular home. You see, they had to talk it all over without the restraint of their host's presence.

"I think," said Mabel, ecstatically, "that Mr. Black is just too dear for words. Some folks are too stingy to live, with their automobiles and horses and never think of giving anybody a ride."

"He's certainly very generous," agreed Jean.

"Of course," ventured Marjory, meditatively, "he has plenty of money or he couldn't do nice things."

"He would anyway," declared Bettie. "It's the way he's made. Don't you remember how Mrs. Crane was always being good to people even when she was so dreadfully poor? Well, Mr. Black would be just like that, too, even if he hadn't a single dollar. He has a Santa Claus heart."

"There are folks," admitted Marjory, "that wouldn't know how to give anybody a good time if they had all the money in the world. There's Aunty Jane, for instance. She's a very good woman, with a terribly pricking conscience, and I know she'd like to make things pleasant for me if she knew how, but she doesn't, poor thing. She doesn't know a good time when she sees one. And Mrs. Howard Slater doesn't, either."

"Good-evening, girls," said Mrs. Mapes, coming in with a newspaper in her hand. "I thought I heard voices in here. Have you had a nice day? You're just in time to read the paper; there's something in it that will interest you."