“Oh! poor little Pomp will be killed!”

In fact the danger was imminent, for the lawn at that spot merged into a rocky space, forming a little bluff which overhung the stream some fifteen, feet.  Oriana’s hand was laid instinctively upon Arthur’s shoulder, and with the other she pointed, with a gesture of bewildered anxiety, at the approaching vehicle.  Arthur paused only long enough to understand the situation, and then stepping calmly a few paces to the left, stood directly in the path of the rushing steeds.

“Oh, Mr. Wayne! no, no!” cried Oriana, in a tone half of fear and half supplication; but he stood there unmoved, with the same quiet, mournful expression that he habitually wore.  The horses faltered somewhat when they became conscious of this fixed, calm figure directly in their course.  They would have turned, but their impetus was too great, and they swerved only enough to bring the head of the off horse in a line with Arthur’s body.  As coolly as if he was taking up a favorite book, but with a rapid movement, he grasped the rein below the bit with both hands firmly, and swung upon it with his whole weight.  The frightened animal turned half round, stumbled, and rolled upon his side, his mate falling upon his knees beside him; the carriage was overturned with a crash, and little Pompey pitched out upon the greensward, unhurt.

By this time, Beverly, followed by a crowd of excited negroes, had reached the spot.

“How is it, Arthur,” said Beverly, placing his hand affectionately on his friend’s shoulder, “are you hurt?”

“No,” he replied, the melancholy look softening into a pleasant smile; but as he rose and adjusted his disordered dress, he coughed painfully—­the same dry, hacking cough that had often made those who loved him turn to him with an anxious look.  It was evident that his delicate frame was ill suited to such rough exercise.

“We shall be cheated out of our ride this morning,” said Beverly, “for that axle has been less fortunate than you, Arthur; it is seriously hurt.”

They moved slowly toward the house, Oriana looking silently at the grass as she walked mechanically at her brother’s side.  When Arthur descended into the drawing-room, after having changed his soiled apparel, he found her seated there alone, by the casement, with her brow upon her hand.  He sat down at the table and glanced abstractedly over the leaves of a scrap-book.  Thus they sat silently for a quarter hour, when she arose, and stood beside him.

“Will you forgive me, Mr. Wayne?”

He looked up and saw that she had been weeping.  The haughty curl of the lip and proud look from the eye were all gone, and her expression was of humility and sorrow.  She held out her hand to him with an air almost of entreaty.  He raised it respectfully to his lips, and with the low, musical voice, sadder than ever before, he said: 

“I am sorry that you should grieve about anything.  There is nothing to forgive.  Let us forget it.”