“Well,” said she, “never in this world would I have thought that was your bear!  But what is to be done now?  This horse gave a jump as soon as he heard you running this way.”

“Now,” said I, “I will drive you to your house, or, if you are afraid, you can walk, and I will take him home for you if you will give me the directions.”

“Oh, I am not a bit afraid,” she said.  “I am sure you can manage him—­you seem to be able to manage animals.  But will not this be a great inconvenience to you?  Are you going this way?  And won’t you have to come back after your bear?  I can’t believe that you are really leading a bear about.”

I laughed as I unfastened the horse.  “It will not take me long to come back,” I said.  “Now, I will get in first, and, when I have him properly in hand, you can mount on the other side.”

The young lady appeared to have entirely recovered from the effects of her fright, and was by my side in a moment.  The horse danced a little as we started and tried to look behind him, but he soon felt that he was under control, and trotted off finely.

I now thought that I ought to tell her who I was, for I did not want to be taken for a travelling showman, although I really did not suppose that she would make such a mistake.

“So you are the school-master at Walford!” said she.  “I have heard about you.  Little Billy Marshall is one of your scholars.”

I admitted that he was, and that I was afraid he did not do me very much credit.

“Perhaps not,” she said, “but he is a good boy.  His mother sometimes works for us; she does quite heavy jobs of sewing, and Billy brings them up by train.  He was here a little more than a week ago, and I asked him how he was getting on at school, and if he had a good teacher, and he said the man was pretty good.  But I want to know about the bear.  How in the world did you happen to be leading a bear?”

I related the ursine incident, which amused her very much, and, as she was a wheelwoman herself, she commiserated with me sincerely on the damage to my machine.

“So you stopped at the Holly Sprig?” she said.  “And how did you like the mistress of that little inn?”

I replied that I had found her very interesting.

“Yes, she is an interesting woman,” said my companion, “and a very pretty one, too.  Some people wonder why she continues to keep the inn, but perhaps she has to.  You know, her husband was murdered.”

[Illustration:  “He soon felt that he was under control”]

“No, I did not!” I exclaimed, in surprise.  “I knew he was not living—­but murdered!  That is dreadful!  How did that happen?”

“Nobody knows,” she answered.  “They had not been married very long—­I do not know how long—­when he was killed.  He went to New York on business by himself, and did not come back.  They were searching for him days and days—­ever so long, and they could find no clew.  At last—­it may have been a month afterwards—­or perhaps it was more—­it was found that he had been murdered.  His body had been discovered, and was supposed to be that of somebody else, and had been buried in whatever place the authorities buried people in such cases.  Then it was too late to get it or to identify it, or to do anything.  Wasn’t that perfectly awful?”