“Jolly country, isn’t it?” I essayed hurriedly, with a comprehensive wave of my whip.

The preoccupied “’M” was repeated with even less emphasis.

Another protracted silence.  I decided not to interfere with the course of nature as manifested in one small grey-eyed maiden of eight.  Presently there burst from her ecstatically, “Uncle Dick, is this the one I’m going to ride?” So that was it.  From that moment we got on splendidly.  We discussed, agreed and disagreed over breeds, paces, sizes.  I told her the horse she would ride would be twice the size of Rex, and she nearly fell out of the trap when I said we might go together that very afternoon.

“I’ve not learned to gallop,” she remarked with some reluctance; “but of course you could teach me.”

I had only heard the vaguest rumours of her riding experience, and she was very mysterious about it herself.  However, when she came downstairs at the appointed time, in her brown velvet jockey-cap, top-boots, breeches and gloves complete, she looked so determined and efficient I felt reassured.

I had to make holes in the stirrup leathers eleven inches higher than the top one of all before she could touch the irons; but she settled into the saddle with great firmness and we were off without any fuss.  Once on a horse, she had no difficulty in maintaining a perfect continuity of speech, and I soon felt relieved of all anxiety about her safety.  If she was not an old and practised hand, she had nerve and balance, and I did not think fit to produce the leading rein which I had smuggled into my pocket.

We trotted a perfect three miles, and she had an eye to the country and a word to say about all she saw.  When we turned to come back, I felt Brimstone make his usual spurt forward, but I was not prepared for Treacle’s sudden break away.  He was off like a rocket.  That small child’s cap was flung across my eyes in a sudden gust.  I had retrieved it in a second, but it was time lost, and, by Jove! she was out of sight round a bend.  I followed after, might and main, but the racket of Brimstone’s hoofs only sent Treacle flying faster.  I caught sight of the small figure leaning back, the bright hair flying.  Then they were gone again.  My heart beat very fast.  “She had never learned to gallop!” At every bend I hardly dared to look for what I might find.  I knew Treacle, once started, would dash for home.  If the child could only stick it, all might be well.  I pounded along, and after a two-mile run I came on them.  She had pulled him in and was walking him, waiting for me, a little turned in the saddle, one minute hand resting lightly on his broad back.  She was prettily flushed, her hair blown, but she hadn’t even lost her crop.

“Did you stop to get my cap?” she said as we came up.  “Thanks awfully.”

I wanted to hug the little thing, but her dignity forbade any such exhibition.

The only other reference to the afternoon’s experience was on a postcard I happened to see written the same night, addressed to her mother.