Miss Calthea Rose was up and about very early the next morning.  She had work to do in which there must be no delay or loss of opportunity.  It was plain enough that her scheme for driving away Ida Mayberry had failed, and, having carefully noted the extraordinary length of time which Mrs. Cristie and Mr. Lodloe spent together under the stars the previous evening, she was convinced that it would not be easy to make that lady dissatisfied with the Squirrel Inn.  She therefore determined to turn aside from her plans of exile, to let the child’s nurse stay where she pleased, to give no further thought to Lanigan Beam, and to devote all her energies to capturing Mr. Tippengray.  She believed that she had been upon the point of doing this before the arrival of intruders on the scene, and she did not doubt that she could reach that point again.

Miss Calthea was very restless that morning; she was much more anxious to begin work than was anybody else on the place.  She walked about the ground, went into the garden, passed the summer-house on her way there and back again, and even wandered down to the barnyard, where the milking had just begun.  If any one had been roaming about like herself, she could not have failed to observe such person.  But there was no one about until a little before breakfast-time, when Mr. Petter showed himself.

This gentleman greeted Calthea coolly.  He had had a very animated conversation with his wife on the evening before, and had been made acquainted with the unwarrantable enmity exhibited by this village shopkeeper toward Mrs. Cristie’s blooded assistant.  He was beginning to dislike Calthea, and he remembered that the Rockmores never liked her, and he wished very much that she would cease to spend so much of her time at his house.  After breakfast Calthea was more fortunate.  She saw the Greek scholar walking upon the lawn, with a piece of writing-paper in his hand.  In less than five minutes, by the merest accident in the world, Mr. Tippengray was walking across the lawn with Miss Rose, and he had put his piece of paper into his pocket.

She wanted to ask him something.  She would detain him only a few minutes.  The questions she put to him had been suggested to her by something she had read that morning ­a most meager and unsatisfactory passage.  She held in her hand the volume which, although she did not tell him so, had taken her a half-hour to select in Mr. Petter’s book room.  Shortly they were seated together, and he was answering her questions which, as she knew, related to the most interesting experiences of his life.  As he spoke his eyes glistened and her soul warmed.  He did not wish that this should be so.  He wanted to bring this interview to an end.  He was nervously anxious to go back on the lawn, that he might see Miss Mayberry when she came out of doors; that he might show her the lines of “Pickwick” which he had put into Greek, and which she was to turn back into English.

But he could not cut short the interview.  Miss Calthea was not an Ancient Mariner; she had never even seen the sea, and she had no glittering eye, but she held him with a listening ear, and never was wedding guest, or any other man, held more securely.

Minutes, quarter-hours, half-hours passed and still he talked and she listened.  She guided his speech as a watchful sailor guides his ship, and whichever way she turned it the wind always filled his sails.  For the first ten minutes he had been ill at ease, but after that he had begun to feel that he had never so much enjoyed talking.  In time he forgot everything but what he had to say, and it was rapture to be able to say it, and to feel that never before had he said it so well.

His back was towards the inn, but through some trees Miss Calthea could see that Mr. Petter’s spring wagon, drawn by the two grays, Stolzenfels and Falkenberg, was at the door, and soon she perceived that Mr. Lodloe was in the driver’s place, and that Mrs. Cristie, with Ida Mayberry holding the baby, was on the back seat.  The place next Lodloe was vacant, and they seemed to be waiting for some one.  Then Lanigan Beam came up.  There was a good deal of conversation, in which he seemed to be giving information, and presently he sprang up beside the driver and they were off.  The party were going for a long drive, Miss Calthea thought, because Mrs. Petter had come out and had put a covered basket into the back of the wagon.

Mr. Tippengray was so absorbed in the interest of what he was saying that he did not hear the roll of the departing wheels, and Miss Calthea allowed him to talk on for nearly a quarter of an hour until she thought she had exhausted the branch of the subject on which he was engaged, and was sure the spring wagon was out of sight and hearing.  Then she declared that she had not believed that any part of the world could be as interesting as that region which Mr. Tippengray had been describing to her, and that she was sorry she could not sit there all the morning and listen to him, but duty was duty, and it was necessary for her to return to Lethbury.

This announcement did not seem in the least to decrease the good spirits of the Greek scholar, but his chin and his spirits fell when, on reaching the house, he heard from Mrs. Petter that his fellow-guests had gone off for a long drive.

“They expected to take you, Mr. Tippengray,” said his hostess, “but Lanigan Beam said he had seen you and Miss Rose walking across the fields to Lethbury, and so they asked him to go.  I hope they’ll be back to dinner, but there’s no knowing, and so I put in a basket of sandwiches and things to keep them from starving before they get home.”

Miss Calthea was quite surprised.

“We were sitting over yonder the whole time,” she said, “very much occupied with talking, it is true, but near enough to hear if we had been called.  I fancy that Lanigan had reasons of his own for saying we had gone to Lethbury.”

Poor Mr. Tippengray was downcast.  How much time must elapse before he would have an opportunity to deliver the piece of paper he had in his pocket!  How long would he be obliged to lounge around by himself waiting for Ida Mayberry to return!

“Well,” said Calthea, “I must go home, and as I ought to have been there long ago, I am going to ask Mr. Petter to lend me a horse and buggy.  It’s the greatest pity, Mr. Tippengray, that you have lost your drive with your friends, but as you can’t have that, suppose you take one with me.  I don’t mind acknowledging to you that I am a little afraid of Mr. Petter’s horses, but with you driving I should feel quite safe.”

If Mr. Tippengray could have immediately thought of any good reason why he should have staid at home that morning he would probably have given it, but none came into his mind.  After all, he might as well be driving to Lethbury as staying there doing nothing, and there could be no doubt that Miss Calthea was very agreeable that morning.  Consequently he accepted the invitation.

Calthea Rose went herself to the barn to speak to Mr. Petter about the horse, and especially requested that he would lend her old Zahringen, whom she knew to be the most steady of beasts, but Zahringen had gone to be shod, and there was no horse at her service except Hammerstein, and no vehicle but a village cart.  Hammerstein was a better horse than Zahringen, and would take Calthea home more rapidly, which entirely suited Mr. Petter.

It may be here remarked that the barn and stables were not of Mr. Petter’s building, but in order that they might not be entirely exempt from the influence of his architectural fancies, he had given his horses the names of certain castles on the Rhine.

Calthea was not altogether satisfied with the substitution of the big black horse for the fat brown one, but she could make no reasonable objection, and the vehicle was soon at the door.

Mr. Tippengray was very fond of driving, and his spirits had risen again.  But he was a good deal surprised when Miss Calthea declined to take the seat beside him, preferring to occupy the rear seat with her back to the horse.  By turning a little to one side, she said she could talk just as well, and it was more comfortable in such a small vehicle as a village cart to have a whole seat to one’s self.

As soon as they were in the road that ran through the woods she proved that she could twist herself around so as to talk to her companion, and look him in the face, quite as easily as if she had been sitting beside him.  They chatted together, and looked each other in the face, and the Greek scholar enjoyed driving very much until they had gone a mile or more on the main road, and had come upon an overturned wagon lying by the roadside.  At this Hammerstein and the conversation suddenly stopped.  The big black horse was very much opposed to overturned vehicles.  He knew that in some way they were connected with disaster, and he would not willingly go near one.  He stood head up, ears forward, and slightly snorting.  Mr. Tippengray was annoyed by this nonsense.

“Go on!” he cried, “Get up!” Then the driver took the whip from the socket and gave the horse a good crack.

“Get up!” he cried.

Hammerstein obeyed, but got up in a manner which Mr. Tippengray did not intend.  He arose upon his hind legs, and pawed the air, appearing to the two persons behind him like a tall, black, unsteady steeple.

When a horse harnessed to a village cart sees fit to rear, the hind part of the vehicle is brought very near to the ground, so that a person sitting on the back seat can step out without trouble.  Miss Calthea perceived this and stepped out.  On general principles she had known that it was safer to alight from the hind seat of a village cart than from the front seat.

“Don’t pull at him that way,” she cried from the opposite side of the road, “he will go over backwards on top of you.  Let him alone and perhaps he will stop rearing.”

Hammerstein now stood on all his feet again, and Miss Calthea earnestly advised Mr. Tippengray to turn him around and drive back.

“I am not far from home now,” she said, “and can easily walk there.  I really think I do not care to get in again.  But I am sure he will go home to his stable without giving you any trouble.”

But Mr. Tippengray’s spirit was up, and he would not be conquered by a horse, especially in the presence of a lady.

“I shall make him pass it,” he cried, and he brought down his whip on Hammerstein’s back with such force that the startled animal gave a great bound forward, and then, finding himself so near the dreaded wreck, he gave a wilder bound, and passed it.  Then, being equipped with blinders, which did not allow him to see behind him, he did not know but the frightful wagon, its wheels uppermost, was wildly pursuing him, and, fearing that this might be so, he galloped onward with all his speed.

The Greek scholar pulled at the reins and shouted in such a way that Hammerstein was convinced that he was being urged to use all efforts to get away from the oncoming monster.  He did not turn into the Lethbury road when he came to it, but kept straight on.  At such a moment the straighter the road the better.  Going down a long hill, Mr. Tippengray, still pulling and shouting, and now hatless, perceived, some distance ahead of him, a boy standing by the roadside.  It was easy enough for the practised eye of a country boy to take in the state of affairs, and his instincts prompted him to skip across the road and open a gate which led into a field recently plowed.

Mr. Tippengray caught at the boy’s idea and, exercising all his strength, he turned Hammerstein into the open gateway.  When he had made a dozen plunges into the deep furrows and through the soft yielding loam, the horse concluded that he had had enough of that sort of exercise, and stopped.  Mr. Tippengray, whose senses had been nearly bounced out of him, sprang from the cart, and, slipping on the uneven surface of the ground, tumbled into a deep furrow, from which, however, he instantly arose without injury, except to his clothes.  Hurrying to the head of the horse he found the boy already there, holding the now quiet animal.  The Greek scholar looked at him admiringly.

“My young friend,” said he, “that was a noble thought, worthy of a philosopher.”

The boy grinned.

“They generally stop when they get into a plowed field,” he said.  “What skeered him?”

Mr. Tippengray briefly related the facts of the case, and the horse was led into the road.  It was soon ascertained that no material harm had been done to harness or vehicle.

“Young man,” said Mr. Tippengray, “what will you take for your hat!”

The boy removed his head-covering and looked at it.  It was of coarse straw, very wide, very much out of shape, without a band, and with a hole in the crown surrounded by a tuft of broken straw.

“Well,” said he, “it ain’t worth much now, but it’ll take a quarter to buy a new one.”

“Here is a quarter for your hat,” said the Greek scholar, “and another for your perspicacity.  I suppose I shall find my hat on the road, but I cannot wait for that.  The sun is too hot.”

The Greek scholar now started homeward, leading Hammerstein.  He liked walking, and had no intention whatever of again getting into that cart.  If, when they reached the overturned wagon, the animal should again upheave himself, or in any way misbehave, Mr. Tippengray intended to let go of him, and allow him to pursue his homeward way in such manner and at such speed as might best please him.

The two walked a long distance without reaching the object of Hammerstein’s fright, and Mr. Tippengray began to think that the road was a good deal narrower and more shaded than he had supposed it to be.  The fact was, that a road diverged from the right, near the top of the hill, which he had not noticed when passing it in mad career, and naturally turning to the right, without thinking very much about it, he had taken this road instead of the one by which he had come.  Our scholar, however, did not yet comprehend that he was on the wrong road, and kept on.

Soon his way led through the woods, with great outstretching trees, with wide-open spaces, interspersed here and there with masses of undergrowth.  Mr. Tippengray greatly enjoyed the shaded road, the smell of the pines, and the flowers scattered along the edges of the wood.  But in a few minutes he would doubtless have discovered that he had gone astray, and, notwithstanding the pleasantness of his surroundings, he would have turned back, had he not suddenly heard voices not far away.  He stopped and listened.

The voices came from behind a clump of evergreens close by the roadside, and to his utter amazement Mr. Tippengray heard the voice of Lanigan Beam saying to some one that true love must speak out, and could not be silenced; that for days he had been looking for an opportunity, and now that it had come she must hear him, and know that his heart was hers only, and could never belong to anybody else.  Then the voice of Ida Mayberry, very clear and distinct, replied that he must not talk to her in that way, that her line of life and his were entirely different.  And she was doubtless going to say more, when her companion interrupted, and vowed with all possible earnestness that whatever line of life she chose should be his line; that he would gladly give up every plan and purpose, follow her in whatever direction she chose to lead, and do whatever she wished he should do.

Mr. Tippengray was very uneasy.  The subject-matter of the conversation he was overhearing disturbed him in a manner which he did not understand, and he felt, moreover, that it was not proper for him to listen to another word.  He did not know what to do; if he moved forward they would hear the wheels, and know that he had been near, and if he attempted to back out of the vicinity there was no knowing what hubbub he and Hammerstein might create.  While standing undecided, he heard Lanigan speak thus: 

“And as for Greek, and that sort of thing, you shall have all you want.  I’ll hire old Tippengray by the year; he shall be the family pedagogue, and we’ll tap him for any kind of learning we may happen to want.”

Instantly all thought of retreat fled from the mind of the scholar; his eyes glittered, and he was on the point of doing something, when there came from a little distance the voice of Mrs. Cristie, loudly calling for Ida.  There was shuffling of feet, and in a few moments Mr. Tippengray perceived the nurse-maid rapidly walking away between the trees while Lanigan leisurely followed.

With head erect and nostrils dilated, as if he had been excited by the perception of something upside down, Mr. Tippengray again laid hold of the bridle of Hammerstein, and went on.  In a few minutes he emerged upon an open space, through which flowed a little brook, and where sat Mrs. Cristie, Lodloe, Ida Mayberry with the baby in her lap, and Lanigan Beam.  All of these persons, excepting the infant, were eating sandwiches.

At the sight of the little man and the tall horse, the former spattered with mud, smeared with the earth of the plowed field, and crowned with a misshapen hat with the expansive hole in the top, the sandwich-eaters stopped eating, gazed open-eyed, and then burst out laughing.  Mr. Tippengray did not laugh; his eyes still glittered.

It was half an hour before the tale was told, order restored, and Mr. Tippengray had washed his face and hands in the brook and taken refreshment.  Then he found himself alone with Mrs. Cristie.

“Truly you have had a hard time,” said she, kindly.

“Madam,” answered the Greek scholar, “you are entirely correct.  This has been an unfortunate day for me.  I have been cunningly entrapped, and heartlessly deserted; I have been nearly frightened out of my wits; have had my soul nearly burned out of my body, and have been foully besmirched with dirt and mud.  But, worse than all, I have heard myself made the subject of contempt and contumely.”

“How is that?” exclaimed Mrs. Cristie.  “I do not understand.”

“I will quickly make it plain to you,” said the indignant scholar, and he related the conversation he had overheard.

“What a shameful way to speak of you, Mr. Tippengray!” cried Mrs. Cristie.  “I did not suppose that Mr. Beam would dare to say such things to one whom he knew to be your friend.  I have no doubt that if I had not called Ida at that moment, you would have heard her resent that disrespectful speech.”

“I hope so; with all my heart, I hope so,” replied the Greek scholar.

He said this with so much feeling that his companion looked at him a few moments without speaking.

“Mr. Tippengray,” she said presently, “it is time for us to go home.  How would you like to take Ida Mayberry back in your cart?”

The brightness in the eyes of the Greek scholar changed from the glitter of indignation to gleams of joy.

“Madam,” said he, “I should like it of all things.  It would remove from the anticipated pleasures of this day the enormous Alpha privative which has so far overshadowed them.”

The young widow did not exactly comprehend this answer, but it was enough to know that he was glad to accept the opportunity she offered him.  No sooner had he spoken than Mr. Tippengray remembered the hazards to which he was exposing himself by again taking the reins of Hammerstein, but not for an instant did he think of drawing back.  His desire to take Ida Mayberry away from that fellow, and have her by himself, overpowered fear and all other feelings.

Mrs. Cristie’s arrangement for the return pleased everybody except Lanigan Beam.  The nurse-maid was perfectly willing to go in the village cart, and was not at all afraid of horses, and Walter Lodloe had no objection to sit on the back seat of the wagon with his lady-love, and help take care of the baby.  Lanigan made few remarks about the situation; he saw that he had made a mistake, and was being punished for it, and without remonstrance he took the front seat and the reins of the grays.