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Chapter One.
The Elthornes

Crick!

“There: just as I expected. The old story. Hard and indigestible as lead.”

“I’m very sorry papa, dear.”

“Sorry! What’s the good of being sorry? You know how I suffer from indigestion, and yet you persist in giving me eggs like that for my breakfast.”

Mr Ralph Elthorne, of Hightoft, in the county of Lincolnshire, threw down the knife with which he had given a savage chop at the side of an egg, as if to cut off the top at a blow, pushed away his plate so that the silver egg-cup fell over sidewise, finishing the breaking of the egg, and letting a thick stream of rich yellow yolk begin to flow, while the irritable gentleman made a snatch at the toast-rack, and uttered an angry ejaculation.

“Will you take tea or coffee, papa, dear?” said the sweet, rather delicate looking girl seated at the head of the table; but there was no reply, and after exchanging glances with the lady, a good-looking, sun-tanned young fellow on her right said:

“Let me send you some of this, father,” and he “made an offer” at the hot water dish before him with a glistening spoon.

“Eh? What is it, Al?”

“Kidneys, sir.”

“Bah! No, I’ve got leather enough here. Look at this. Does that idiotic woman in the kitchen call this dry toast? Look at it. Only fit to make soles for shooting boots.”

“Rather caky,” said the young man, with his mouth full. “Not bad kidneys; nice and hot.”

“Well, Isabel, how long am I to wait for that cup of coffee? No, I’ll take tea.”

The girl, who had poured out two cupfuls tentatively, started up from her chair, and took the cup of tea round to the other end of the table, placed it beside the rather fierce looking elderly man, bent down and kissed his forehead, and hurried back to her place.

“We never did have but one servant who could make the toast properly,” continued the head of the family. “How is she, Isabel? When is she coming back?”

“Very soon, I hope, papa. Neil mentions Maria in his letter this morning.”

“Eh? Neil written to you?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Mr Elthorne, making a dig at a pat of butter as it floated in water in the cooler, splashing some of the water over the cloth, and harpooning the said pat so insecurely that it dropped off his knife before it reached his plate. “I think it would be more creditable to Neil if he wrote a little more often to his father.”

Alison Elthorne exchanged glances with his sister, and his lips moved as if he were speaking words which Isabel interpreted to mean, “Got out of bed wrong way.”

The breakfast went on. Mr Elthorne placed a pair of spring folding glasses on his well-cut aquiline nose, and took up and frowned at a letter. “When’s Neil coming down?”

“He did not say, papa. He writes that poor Maria causes him a great deal of anxiety.”

“Poor Maria? I think she ought to be very glad and grateful. It is wonderful what is done for the poor in this country. Here is this girl, taken up to London free of expense, placed in a magnificent institution, and receives the attention of such an eminent man as – hah, not a bad cup of tea,” – a long breath drawn after a hearty draught – “as Sir Denton Hayle, without counting that of Neil. Is your aunt coming down to breakfast, or is she not?”

“She will be down soon, papa. She – she rather overslept herself.”

“Rubbish! Idleness! Pure idleness! She knows how I hate to see an empty chair at the table. Professes to keep house, and is never in her place at proper time. Keep house, indeed! Eggs like leaden bullets; toasts and kidneys like leather; tea half cold and not fit to drink; and – ”

“Now, papa, dear, you said just now that it was not a bad cup of tea.”

“Eh? Did I? Humph – a lapsus linguae,” said Mr Elthorne with a grim smile, for his breakfast was softening down his asperities. “Alison, ring that bell.”

The young man rose slowly and straddled to the fireplace after the fashion of men who are a good deal in the saddle, rang, and came back to the table.

“Been in the stables this morning, Al?”

“Yes.”

“How did The Don look?”

“Oh, right enough, but I don’t like him any better, sir.”

“Prejudice, Al, prejudice. Because I let someone else choose him instead of you. Wants an older man to judge a horse.”

“Dare say it does, sir. But I would not have given a hundred pounds for The Don – nor yet thirty,” added the young man sotto voce.

“Bah! Prejudice, boy. Sound wind and limb; well bred.”

“Granted, sir. He is all that you say, but he has a temper. You wanted a quieter animal – a nice weight-bearing, steady cob.”

“Indeed!” said Mr Elthorne, sarcastically, “or a donkey. I’m growing so old and feeble.”

“You rang, sir,” said the quiet, staid looking butler.

“Yes; send one of the maids up to ask Mrs Barnett – humph! Never mind.”

The butler held open the door for a rather stout, florid looking, middle-aged lady to enter, which she did in a hurried, bustling way, pressing her pince-nez on to her nose.

“Good-morning!” she exclaimed. “I am so sorry, Ralph. I hope I have not kept you waiting.”

“Oh, dear, no,” began Mr Elthorne. “Oh, hang it all, Anne, do mind,” he continued, as there was a click caused by the encountering of two pairs of spectacles, as the lady kissed him, and then bustled on to salute Alison with a similar kiss to that bestowed upon his father.

“Morning, my dear. Good-morning once more, Isabel, my dear.”

“And how are you now you have come?” said Mr Elthorne gruffly.

“Oh, not at all well, Ralph, dear,” sighed the lady, as she settled herself in her chair and spread her snowy napkin across her knees. “What have you there, Alison, dear? Yes, I’ll take one. Coffee, please, Isabel dear. It’s very chilly this morning.”

“Very,” said Mr Elthorne sarcastically. “You should have a fire in your bedroom.”

“Well, really, Ralph, I think I will. It is so cold getting up.”

She sneezed sharply. There was a faint click, and a tiny splash in her cup.

“Oh, dear me, look at that!” cried the lady. “Isabel, my dear, will you pass me the sugar tongs. Thanks.”

Alison burst into a fit of laughter as his aunt began solemnly to fish in her coffee cup for her pince-nez.

“You shouldn’t laugh, my dear.”

“Enough to make a donkey laugh,” said Mr Elthorne grimly.

“Did you mean that term for me, sir?” said Alison sharply.

“No, Al, no,” said his father coolly. “If it had been meant for you I should have called you an ass.”

“Thank you,” said the young man.

“Quite welcome, Al. You are one sometimes.” Alison frowned, but his annoyance passed off as he saw success attend his aunt’s diving apparatus, for she made a successful plunge, brought out the dripping glasses, and began placidly to wipe them upon her napkin.

“The springs of these glasses do get so terribly weak,” she said, and then paused to raise her head, throw it back, and gaze plaintively up at a corner of the ceiling.

“Er – er – er – er – ”

“What’s the matter, Auntie?” said Alison mockingly.

“Tchischew! – er – tischew!” she sneezed. “Oh, dear me, what a cold I have caught!”

“Be careful, then, not to put on damp spectacles, or you may make it worse,” said Mr Elthorne, smiling.

“You don’t think so, do you, Ralph?”

“No, Auntie; papa’s making fun of you.”

“You shouldn’t, Ralph; it really is too bad, and before the children, too. But I’m afraid I’m going to have a very bad cold. I wish Neil would make haste and come down.”

“What for?” said Mr Elthorne.

“He seems to understand my constitution better than anyone I have ever been to.”

“Bah!” ejaculated her brother. “He is only an apprentice to his trade. Mark my words: he’ll poison you one of these days by making experiments upon you.”

“Really, my dear, you shouldn’t. I’m sure Neil has too much respect for his aunt to be so wicked,” said the lady, going on with her breakfast very composedly. “I hope he will soon cure Maria, though, and send her back. I do miss her sadly.”

“Humph!” grumbled Mr Elthorne; “that’s why you were so late, I suppose.”

“No, Ralph. Alison, my dear, give me a bit of that toast that is soaked in gravy; thank you, my dear. I do not say that; I know I am late this morning, but I do miss her very much. But I thought you people were going out riding.”

“So we are,” said Alison.

Aunt Anne turned to her niece.

“Oh, I can soon put on my riding habit, Auntie. A little more sugar?”

“Well, yes, just a very little more, my dear; thank you. Ralph, I hope you will be careful over that new horse.”

“Why?” said Mr Elthorne, sharply; and Aunt Anne prattled on.

“Because Alison was saying he thought it had a bad temper, and I always do feel so nervous about horses that kick and bite.”

“Perhaps you’d like me to be tied on.”

“Now, Ralph, you are making fun of me,” said the lady placidly. “Of course I should not.”

“Or have the groom with me to hold a leading-rein?”

“Nonsense, Ralph, dear; that would be absurd; but if the horse bites, I should like you to make it wear that leather thing over its nose.”

“What?” roared Mr Elthorne.

“The crib-biter’s muzzle, father!” cried Alison, roaring with laughter; and the head of the house uttered a fierce growl.

“I do not see anything to laugh at, Alison,” said the lady reprovingly. “I may not understand much about horses, but I have heard that their bite is very dangerous.”

“Don’t you go near him,” said Mr Elthorne sneeringly. “Al!”

“Yes, father.”

“Is Sir Cheltnam coming over this morning?” Isabel looked conscious, and glanced uneasily at the speaker.

“Said he should,” replied Alison.

“Then you’d better mind what you are about.”

“I always do,” said the young man sourly.

“Don’t speak to me in that tone, sir.”

“Now, Ralph, dear! – Alison!” cried Aunt Anne, turning from one to the other as she hastily interposed, to play the part of mediator. “You should not speak so abruptly to papa. But I’m sure he did not mean to be disrespectful, Ralph.”

“You mind your own business, madam; I can manage my children,” growled Mr Elthorne. “A puppy! Do you think I’m blind? Sir Cheltnam was cutting in before you all the time we were out last, and I could see that Dana was encouraging him out of pique. She as good as owned to it afterward to me.”

“I don’t suppose Burwood would like it if he knew you called him a puppy.”

“I did not, sir – I called you one.”

“Don’t – pray don’t be angry, Ralph,” said Aunt Anne softly.

“I told you to mind your own business, madam,” said her brother shortly. “If you’d do that, and look after the housekeeping, I should not have my digestion ruined with gutta percha kidneys and leathery toast. Now, look here, Alison, as this topic has cropped up, please understand me. I don’t like to speak so plainly about such delicate matters, but one must be clear when the future careers of young people are in question.”

“Oh, dear me,” muttered Alison. “More coffee, Isabel,” he added aloud, while his father pushed away his plate, took off his glasses, and began to swing them round by the string.

“If that cord breaks, Ralph, those glasses will break something,” said Aunt Anne, and Mr Elthorne uttered an impatient snort.

“Now, look here, Alison. I suppose you fully understand that I have a reason in encouraging the visits here of those two girls?”

“Yes, father, I suppose so.”

“Humph – that’s right; but don’t be so indifferent. Dana is an exceedingly pretty, clever girl; a splendid horsewoman; of good birth; and she and Saxa have capital portions. One of them will have Morton, of course; in all probability Dana, for Saxa, when she marries your brother, will go to live in town. Now, I should like to know what more a young fellow of your age could wish for – the money you will get from me, Morton Court, Dana’s portion, and a pretty, clever wife.”

“I think you might have put the lady first, Ralph,” said Aunt Anne.

“Mrs Barnett, will you be good enough to finish your breakfast, and let me speak,” said Mr Elthorne cuttingly. “Then, by-and-by, you will be on the bench, and, before long, have a third of your aunt’s money, for she cannot live long if she eats so much.”

“My dear Ralph,” cried the lady.

“Can you make any better plans, sir? If so, pray let me hear them, there is no coercion – I merely ask you all to do well, and be happy.”

“Oh, no, I have no plans. I like Dana very well. She’s a jolly enough girl.”

“Then that’s settled, sir; only just bear it in mind, and don’t let Burwood be stuffing her head full of nonsensical ideas. Some girls would be attracted at once by the prospect of becoming ‘my lady,’ but Dana is too shrewd.”

“Almost a pity that the girls have no brother,” said Alison carelessly.

“Why, sir?” said his father sharply.

“Because then he could have married little Isabel, and completed the combination,” said Alison, looking meaningly at his sister.

“Don’t be an ass, boy. Hallo! Who’s this?” cried Mr Elthorne, turning sharply in his chair as a bell rang.

“Only Beck, father. I asked him to come with us.” Mr Elthorne turned upon his son mute with anger and annoyance; hence he did not notice the bright look and increase of colour in his daughter’s face. “You asked him to come over – this morning?”

“Yes, father. Poor beggar, he only has a few more days before he sails for China, and I thought it would be neighbourly. Old Beck is always very nice to me.”

“Oh, very well,” said Mr Elthorne abruptly; and Isabel uttered a low sigh of relief as she busied herself over her aunt’s cup, suddenly displaying great anxiety that the placid looking lady should have some more coffee.

“Better ask him in to breakfast, Al,” said Mr Elthorne.

“Yes; I was going to,” said Alison, rising and leaving the room, to return in a few minutes with a frank, manly looking young fellow of seven or eight and twenty, whose face was of a rich, warm brown up to the centre of his forehead, and there became white up to his curly chestnut hair, which was a little darker than his crisp, closely cut beard.

“Ah, Beck, come over for a ride with us?” said Mr Elthorne. “How is the vicar?”

“Quite well, sir.”

“And Mrs Beck?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Alison was good enough to ask me to join your party.”

He shook hands with the ladies, and there was rather a conscious look between Isabel and the visitor as their hands joined – one which did not escape the head of the family.

“Sit down, Beck, sit down,” he said, cordially enough, all the same.

“Oh, I have breakfasted, sir.”

“Yes; we’re late,” said Mr Elthorne, with a look at Aunt Anne.

“That means it is my fault, Mr Beck,” said the lady; “but never mind, my dear, sit down and have some more. Sailors always have good appetites.”

“Oh, well, just a drop of coffee,” said the young man, for Isabel had quickly filled a cup, and was holding it out to him. “Thanks, Miss Elthorne; but really I did not mean – ”

“You are on the vicar’s cob?” said Mr Elthorne quickly, as he noted his daughter’s heightened colour, and the young man’s hesitation and evident pleasure.

“Try some of this game pie, Beck,” cried Alison, pushing over a plate. “Aunt Anne finished the kidneys.”

“Ally, my dear.”

“Oh, thanks,” said the visitor, taking the plate as he settled himself at the table. “Cob, sir? Oh, no; a friend sent me over one of his horses. I have had it these three days.”

A curious look of trouble crossed Isabel’s countenance, and she sat watching the speaker as he went on: “That’s the worst of being ashore. Everyone is so kind. I am always spoiled, and it takes me a month to get over it when I get back to my ship.”

“And when do you go?” said Mr Elthorne.

“This day fortnight, sir.”

“For six months, isn’t it?”

“There is no certainty, sir, I’m sorry to say. We may be ordered on to Japan afterward.”

“Isabel, my dear, I am sure Mr Beck will excuse you.”

“Eh? Oh, yes, certainly,” said the visitor with his lips, but with a denial of the words in his eyes.

“Go and put on your riding habit, my dear. Aunt Anne will pour out the coffee.”

“Yes, papa,” said the girl; and she rose, and, after exchanging glances with their visitor, left the room.

“Oh, yes, I’ll pour out the coffee,” said Aunt Anne, changing her seat. “You are very fond of riding, Mr Beck, are you not?”

“Well, ye-es,” said the young man, laughing, and with an apologetic look at his host and friend; “I like it very much, but I always seem such a poor horseman among all these hard riders, and feel as if I ought to congratulate myself when I get back safe.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr Elthorne condescendingly, “you would have the laugh at us if you got us to sea. Did you see anything of Sir Cheltnam?”

“No; I came by the lower road.”

“Here he is – they are, I ought to say,” cried Alison, jumping up and going to the window.

“Eh?” ejaculated Mr Elthorne, rising too, and joining his son at the window to watch a party of three coming across the park at a hard gallop – the party consisting of two ladies and a gentleman, with one of the ladies leading, well back in her saddle, evidently quite at her ease.

“Humph,” muttered Mr Elthorne; and then in a low voice to his son: “Of course. If you had had any brains you would have ridden out to meet them, and not left them to another escort.”

“Oh, I shall be with them all day, sir, and – Ah Saxa, you foolish girl,” he cried excitedly, of course with his words perfectly inaudible to the member of the group whom he was addressing. “The horse will rush that fence as sure as I’m here. Oh, hang all wire and hurdles!”

“What’s the matter?” cried Beck, starting from the table as Alison opened the French window and stepped out. “My word, how those two girls can ride.”

“Like Amazons, sir,” said Mr Elthorne proudly, as he watched the party, now coming over the closely cropped turf at quite a racing pace; and his voice was full of the excitement he felt. “Will she see it, Al, my boy? Yes, she rises – cleared it like a swallow. Bravo! With such a lead the others are safe to – ”

“Well done! Well over!” cried Alison, from outside, as he began clapping his hands.

“Capital! Bravo!” cried Mr Elthorne, following his son’s example, as he now stepped outside to meet the party who were rapidly coming up after skimming over the hurdle which formed part of the ring fence of the estate.

“All safe over, Mrs Barnett,” said the vicar’s son, returning to the table.

“Then they don’t deserve to be, Mr Beck,” said the lady. “I do not approve of girls being so horribly masculine. If our Isabel were like that, I should feel as if I had not done my duty to her since her poor mother died.”

“But she is not like that,” said the visitor, after a quick glance at the open window.

“No, my dear, not a bit. I hate to see young ladies such tomboys. But there – poor girls! – no mother – no father.”

“And no Aunt Anne to guide them,” interpolated the visitor.

“Thank you, my dear. It’s very nice of you to say so. I’m afraid I’m not clever, but I do try to act a mother’s part to dear Isabel. I don’t know, though, what I shall do when Neil and Alison marry those two. They don’t like me a bit, and, between ourselves, I really don’t like them.”

“Morning, daddy,” came in a loud, breathless voice from the outside. “What do you think of that?”

“Morning,” came in another voice; and the word was repeated again in the deep tones of a man, and supplemented by the snortings of horses.

“Morning, my dears. Capital! But very imprudent. I will not have you trying to break that pretty little neck – nor you neither, Dana. Burwood, you should not have encouraged them.”

“I? That’s good, Mr Elthorne. They both took the bit in their teeth, and all I could do was to follow.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense!” cried the second voice. “What a fuss about a canter. Come, you folks, are you ready?”

“How’s Aunt Anne?”

“Good gracious me! Is the girl mad?” cried that lady, as there was the crunching of gravel, the window was darkened, a horse’s hoofs sounded loudly on the step, and the head and neck of a beautiful animal were thrust right into the room, with the bright, merry face of a girl close behind, as its owner stooped to avoid the top of the window and peered in.

“Hallo! There you are. Good-morning! We’ve had such a gallop. Where’s Isabel? Hallo, sailor, how are you?”

“My dear child, don’t – pray don’t,” cried Aunt Anne. “You’ll be having some accident. Suppose that horse put his foot through the glass.”

“Good job for the glazier. Here Tom Beck, give Biddy some lumps of sugar.”

“Bless the child!” cried Aunt Anne. “Oh, here’s Isabel. Mr Beck, take the sugar basin, and back that dreadful animal out.”

The young sailor obeyed her to the letter, as Isabel entered to look on laughingly, while the other touched the skittish mare upon which she was seated, so that it might join in crunching up the sweet pieces of sugar with which they were fed in turn.

“Morning, parson,” said the new arrival with the deep-toned voice, to Tom Beck, as the young lieutenant went on sugaring the two steeds. “Thought you were off to sea again.”

“Did you?” said Beck, meeting his eyes with a lump of sugar in his hand, and with rather a stern, fixed look, from which the new arrival turned with a half laugh.

“Yes; you sailors are here to-day and gone to-morrow.”

“Exactly,” said Beck; “but this is to-day and not to-morrow.”

“Mr Beck – take care!”

It was Isabel who cried out in alarm, but her warning was too late, for the handsome mare which Dana Lydon rode had stretched out its neck and taken the lump of sugar the young lieutenant was holding; and as he turned sharply, it was at the sudden grip, for the greater part of his hand was held between the horse’s teeth.

“Great Heavens!” cried Mr Elthorne.

“Wait a moment, I’ll make her leave go,” cried Dana, raising her whip to strike the animal between the ears.

“Stop!” cried Beck sharply, as he caught the mare’s bit with his left hand, standing firmly the while, but with his face drawn with pain. “If you do that she’ll crush the bones.”

Isabel uttered a faint sob, and turned white, while Sir Cheltnam sprang from his horse and stepped close to her.

“Don’t be frightened,” he whispered, giving additional pain now to the young sailor in the shape of that which was mental.

Isabel paid no heed to him or his words, but stood gazing wildly at the brave young fellow whose hand was gripped as if in a vice by the powerful jaws, but who, beyond knitting his brows and turning pale, made no sign.

“Here, Alison,” cried Mr Elthorne, “take the other side of the mare’s muzzle. She’ll crush his hand.”

“No, no,” said the young man, quickly. “She’ll let go soon. Be quiet, all of you, or you’ll startle her.”

The young man’s words were full of the authoritative tone of one accustomed to command in emergencies; but his voice shook a little at the last, for he was oppressed by a deadly feeling of sickness which he fought hard to resist, while the group closed round him, and there was a low buzz of excitement through which came the trampling of other horses, as the grooms led them round from the stable yard.

Tom Beck felt that he could hold out no longer. He had tried and manfully to combat the physical pain at a time when the mental was agonising, for he had seen the young baronet approach Isabel and whisper to her, and he had felt that any increase of the terrible grip would mean a horrible mutilation, and the utter blasting of his career and his hopes. Despair was combining with the sensation of faintness; and with the scene around him growing dim and the excited voices beginning to sound muffled and strange, nature was rapidly conquering the education of a brave man who had been schooled to face danger unmoved; he turned his eyes wildly to where Isabel stood.

But that look moved her to spring forward, lay her hand on the mare’s muzzle, and falter out vainly a few caressing words. Worse than vainly, for the mare lowered her head, and increased the sufferer’s agony.

“Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Dana, I shall have to shoot her,” cried Mr Elthorne hoarsely.

Alison pressed forward, and passed his arm about his friend’s waist, for he saw that he was ready to fall, and the morning’s comedy was on the point of becoming tragic, when a loud neigh came from one of the horses being led around to the front, and Beck’s hand fell from the mare’s jaws, for she threw up her head and uttered a whinnying answer to the challenge of Mr Elthorne’s new hunter, The Don.

“Ah!”

It was more a groan than a sigh of relief from all around, while, tightening her rein, Dana cut the mare across the ears with all her might; and as the graceful animal bounded forward, she kept on lashing it furiously, making it curvet and plunge and snort, as it excited the other horses near.

“Don’t! don’t! Dana,” cried her sister. “She’ll throw you.”

“A vicious beast! – a vicious beast!” panted the girl, as she still plied her whip till Mr Elthorne caught her arm.

Beck stood, half supported by Alison, watching Isabel being assisted into the breakfast-room by her aunt and Sir Cheltnam, till she disappeared, when he reeled slightly, but made an effort to recover himself.

“Much hurt, old man?”

“No,” he said hoarsely; “a nasty grip. Tell that girl not to beat the mare. It was not wise.”

“Now, how is he?” cried Mr Elthorne, coming back. “Help him in. Send one of the grooms for the doctor.”

“No, no, sir,” said Beck, with a faint laugh, as he held up the hand deeply indented by the mare’s teeth. “It’s nothing to mind. Shan’t be a one-armed Greenwich pensioner this time.”

“Oh, my dear boy! my dear boy!” cried an excited voice, and Aunt Anne came rushing out of the window with a cup and saucer. “Here, drink this.”

“Anne! Don’t be so foolish,” cried her brother. “He doesn’t want tea.”

“But there’s brandy in it, Ralph,” protested the lady. “Drink it, my dear; it will do you good.”

“Thanks,” said Beck, raising his injured hand to take the cup, but letting it fall again. “Not this time,” he said with a laugh, and taking the cup with his left he drained it. “That’s better, Mrs Barnett,” he said. “There, I’m very sorry, Mr Elthorne, I’ve made quite an upset.”

“And I’m very glad, my boy,” replied his host. “What a horrible mishap!”

“How is he?” cried Dana, cantering up with her sister.

“Oh, it’s nothing – nothing at all.”

“That’s right,” cried Saxa. “Oh, it will soon go off. Not so bad as a spill by a five-bar.”

“Get a liqueur,” said Dana. “I say; it has made you look white. Worse disasters at sea, eh?”

“Much,” said Beck, quietly; and then to himself, “Oh, how I do hate a horsey woman.”

“I say,” cried Saxa; “this isn’t going to spoil our ride, is it, daddy?”

“Oh, no, I hope not; but I will stay, my dears,” said Mr Elthorne.

“What! and not try your new horse! I should like to have the saddle shifted, and put him through his paces myself,” said Saxa, looking at the noble hunter held by a groom.

“No, no, my dear, not to-day,” said Mr Elthorne hastily. “Alison will go with you, girls, and – oh, there’s Burwood. Ask how Isabel is. Say it’s all right now, and the horses are waiting. She turned faint, I suppose. Beck, come in; you had better see the doctor.”

“Nonsense, my dear sir. I’m all right. It isn’t my bridle hand. I shall not want a whip.”

“Oh, no,” said Sir Cheltnam; “your mount wants no whip. Shall you venture?”

“Of course,” said Beck, walking toward where a helper held his horse, just as Isabel came out, looking very pale.

“Well, he has got some pluck in him, Al,” said Sir Cheltnam, “even if he is a parson’s son.”

“Poor fellow! yes,” replied Alison.

“Moral,” said Sir Cheltnam laughingly, to the Lydon girls, “never give lumps of sugar to a skittish mare.”

Ten minutes later the little party were mounted and moved off, leaving Aunt Anne waving her lace handkerchief from the steps.