VIII.

Beyond Cobham came a delightful incident, delightful, that is, in its

beginning if a trifle indeterminate in the retrospect. It was perhaps

half-way between Cobham and Ripley. Mr. Hoopdriver dropped down a little

hill, where, unfenced from the road, fine mossy trees and bracken lay on

either side; and looking up he saw an open country before him, covered

with heather and set with pines, and a yellow road running across it,

and half a mile away perhaps, a little grey figure by the wayside waving

something white. "Never!" said Mr. Hoopdriver with his hands tightening

on the handles.

He resumed the treadles, staring away before him, jolted over a stone,

wabbled, recovered, and began riding faster at once, with his eyes

ahead. "It can't be," said Hoopdriver.

He rode his straightest, and kept his pedals spinning, albeit a limp

numbness had resumed possession of his legs. "It CAN'T be," he repeated,

feeling every moment more assured that it WAS. "Lord! I don't know even

now," said Mr. Hoopdriver (legs awhirling), and then, "Blow my legs!"

But he kept on and drew nearer and nearer, breathing hard and gathering

flies like a flypaper. In the valley he was hidden. Then the road began

to rise, and the resistance of the pedals grew. As he crested the hill

he saw her, not a hundred yards away from him. "It's her!" he said.

"It's her--right enough. It's the suit's done it,"--which was truer

The Wheels of Chance