Edward was helping Zoe into the saddle as Max came hurrying out.

“Take good care of her, Max,” he said, “I’m trusting you and Tom there with my chiefest treasure.”

“I’ll do my best,” Max said, mounting his pony, which Tom the colored boy was holding.

“Me, too, Marse Ed’ard, dere shan’t nuffin hurt Miss Zoe,” added the latter, giving Max the bridle, then mounting a third horse and falling behind the others as they cantered down the avenue.

A little beyond the gate the family carriage passed them, Mr. Dinsmore and a strange gentleman inside.

“Company,” remarked Zoe.  “I wonder who he is, and if he’s come to stay any time?  I think grandpa drove into the city in season to meet the afternoon train.”

“Yes, I know he did,” said Max.

Max had now learned to ride quite well, and felt himself very nearly a man as he escorted Zoe to the village, and, arrived there, went with her from store to store, executed Violet’s commission, then having assisted Zoe into the saddle remounted, and returned with her to Ion.

It was very near the tea hour when they reached home.  Zoe went directly to her own apartments to change her dress, but Max, without even waiting to take off his overcoat, hastened into the parlor to hand the crochet needle to Violet.

The ladies were all there, Rosie, too, and Mr. Dinsmore, and an elderly gentleman, whom Max at once recognized as the one he had seen in the carriage that afternoon.

He shook hands very kindly with the boy as Mr. Dinsmore introduced them, “Cousin Ronald this is Max Raymond—­Mr. Lilburn, Max.”

“Ah ha, ah ha! um, h’m! ah ha!  A fine-looking lad,” Mr. Lilburn said, still holding the boy’s hand in a kindly grasp, and gazing with evident interest into the bright young face.  “I trust you and I are going to be good friends, Max.  I’m no so young myself as I once was, but I like the company of the blithe young lads and lasses.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Max, coloring with pleasure.  “Rosie says you tell splendid stories about Wallace and the Bruce and Robin Hood and his merry men; and I know I shall enjoy them ever so much.”

As he finished his sentence Max colored more deeply than before, at the same time hastily thrusting his right hand deep into the pocket on that side of his overcoat, for a peculiar sound like the cry of a young puppy seemed to come from it at that instant, much to the boy’s discomfiture and astonishment.

“What is that?  What have you got there, Max?” asked little Walter, pricking up his ears, while Violet asked with an amused look, “Have you been making an investment in livestock, Max?”

A query that seemed all the more natural and appropriate as the cluck of a hen came from the pocket on the other side of the overcoat.

Down went the left hand into that.  “No, Mamma Vi, they’re not in my pockets,” returned the boy, with a look of great bewilderment.