You do, one after the other, all the things against which you have been warned, and, when corrected, you look so very dismal and discouraged that the Scotch teacher comes quietly to your side and rides with you, and, feeling that he will prevent your horse from doing anything dangerous, you begin to mend your ways, when suddenly you hear the master proclaim in a voice which, to your horrified ears, seems audible to the whole universe:  “Ah, Miss Esmeralda! she cannot ride, she cannot do her best, unless she has a gentleman beside her.”  In fancy’s eye you seem to see yourself blushing for that criticism during the remainder of your allotted days, and you almost hope that they will be few.  You know that every other girl in the class will repeat it to other girls, and even to men, and possibly even to Theodore, and that you will never be allowed to forget it.  Cannot ride or do your best without a gentleman, indeed!  You could do very well without one gentleman whom you know, you think vengefully, and then you turn to the kindly Scotch teacher, and, with true feminine justice, endeavor to punish him for another’s misdeeds by telling him that, if he please, you would prefer to ride alone.  As he reins back, you feel a decided sinking of the heart and again become conscious that you are oddly incapable of doing anything properly, and then, suddenly, it flashes upon you that the master was right in his judgment, and you fly into a small fury of determination to show him that you can exist “without a gentleman.”  Down go your hands, you straighten your shoulders, adjust yourself to a nicety, think of yourself and of your horse with all the intensity of which you are capable, and make two or three rounds without reproof.

“Now,” says the teacher, “we will try a rather longer trot than usual, and when any lady is tired she may go to the centre of the ring.  Prepare to trot!  Trot!”

The leader’s eyes sparkle with delight as she allows her good horse, after a round or two, to take his own speed, the teacher continues his usual fire of truthful comments as to shoulders, hands and reins, and one after another, the girls leave the track, and only the leader and you remain, she, calm and cool as an iceberg, you, flushed, and compelled to correct your position at almost every stride of your horse, sometimes obliged to sit close for half a round, but with your whole Yankee soul set upon trotting until your master bids you cease.  Can you believe your ears?

“Brava, Miss Esmeralda!” shouts the master.  “Go in again.  That is the way.  Ah, go in again!  That is the way the rider is made!  Again!  Ah, brava!”