It was stoutly bound to the gate-post by several twists of rusty chain.
A stretch of waste land lay beyond the cottage garden; then came the road and then the fields, brown and undulating in the ruddy western glow.
For a second or two Dot considered the homeward path that lay across the fields.

She had come by that earlier in the afternoon, and she knew exactly what it had to offer besides the advantage of cutting half a mile from a three-mile trudge.

But her knowledge eventually decided her in favour of the road.
"Besides," as she optimistically remarked to herself, "someone might pass and give me a lift." For Dot was not above being seen in a waggon or a tradesman's cart.
She accepted as she was prone to give, promiscuously and with absolute freedom.
But it was no tradesman's cart that the gods had in store for her that day.

Rather was it a chariot of their own that presently swooped as if upon wings swiftly and smoothly down upon the Sturdy wayfarer.

Dot herself was scarcely aware of its approach before it had passed and come to a standstill barely half a dozen yards from her.
"Hullo!" cried a boyish voice.