“Here is your preserver, ma’am,” said one of the villagers, pushing Gabriel forward.  Mrs. Simcoe actually smiled.  She put out her hand to him kindly; and Hope, with grave Sweetness, told him how great was their obligation.  The boy bowed and looked at her earnestly.

“Are you hurt?”

“Oh! no, not at all,” replied Hope, smiling, and not without some effort, because she fancied that Gabriel looked at her as if she showed some sign of pain—­or disappointment—­or what?

“We are perfectly well, thanks to you.”

“What started the horses?” asked Gabriel.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Hope.

“Abel Newt started them,” said Mrs. Simcoe.

Hope reddened and looked at her companion.  “What do you mean, Aunty?” asked she, haughtily.

Mrs. Simcoe was explaining, when Abel came up out of breath and alarmed.  In a moment he saw that there had been no injury.  Hope’s eyes met his, and the color slowly died away from her cheeks.  He eagerly asked how it happened, and was confounded by hearing that he was the cause.

“How strange it is,” said he, in a low voice, to Hope, as the people busied themselves in looking after the horses and carriage, and Gabriel talked to Mrs. Simcoe, with whom he found conversation so much easier than with Hope—­“how strange it is that just as I was wondering when and where and how I should see you again, I should meet you in this way, Miss Wayne!”

Pleased, still weak and trembling, pale and flushed by turns, Hope listened to him.

“Where can I see you?” he continued; “certainly your grandfather was unkind—­”

Hope shook her head slowly.  Abel watched every movement—­every look—­every fluctuating change of manner and color, as if he knew its most hidden meaning.

“I can see you nowhere but at home,” she answered.

He did not reply.  She stood silent.  She wished he would speak.  The silence was dreadful.  She could not bear it.

“I am very sorry,” said she, in a whisper, her eyes fastened upon the ground, her hands playing with her handkerchief.

“I hope you are,” he said, quietly, with a tone of sadness, not of reproach.  There was another painful pause.

“I hope so, because I am going away,” said Abel.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“When?”

“In a few weeks.”

“Where is your home?”

“In New York.”

It was very much to the point.  Yet both of them wanted to say so much more; and neither of them dared!

“Miss Hope!” whispered Abel.

Hope heard the musical whisper.  She perceived the audacity of the familiarity, but she did not wish it were otherwise.  She bent her head a little lower, as if listening more intently.

“May I see you before I go?”

Hope was silent.  Dr. Livingstone relates that when the lion had struck him with his paw, upon a certain occasion, he lay in a kind of paralysis, of which he would have been cured in a moment more by being devoured.