oves, Rollo requested to be
told by the peremptory little owner of them, 'what was the
matter with the right end of the subject, now she had got it?'

'I have not got it. The subject has only been gradually
turning round as I pushed, like a turnstile. Mr. Rollo, I
think it would do you a great deal of good to be thoroughly
thwarted and vexed two or three times--then you would learn how
to do things.'

'But, dear Miss Kennedy,' said Primrose's distressed voice,
'you are not going to try to walk through this heat?'

Wych Hazel turned and wrapped her arms about Primrose. 'Yes, I
am--but I don't think it's hot. And please don't call me "Miss
Kennedy"--your father does not.'

'But it's four or five miles.'

'I've walked more than that, often. Good-bye--will you let--'

Primrose kissed her for answer, but then gave her a troubled
whisper: 'I wish you wouldn't walk. Duke is so sure to be
right about the horses.'

'Sure to be right, is he?' said Miss Kennedy. 'Well, I am at
least as sure to be wrong. Good-bye!'

Primrose stood looking, doubtful and uncomfortable, and afraid
to say any more. Rollo smiled at her as he was leaving the
house, looked himself the reverse of uncomfortable, ordered
Byron to lead the horses, and set out by the side of Wych
Hazel. He was not just in the genial mood of last night and
the morning, but cool and gay, as it was his fashion to be;
though gravely and punctiliously attentive to his charge.
Cool, that is to say, as the day permitted; for the sun was
fervent, and pouring down his beams with an overwhelming
lavishness of bestowment.

On her part Wych Hazel went quietly on, not with the undue
energy which shows some hidden excitement but with a steady
step and thoughts most abstractedly busy. She made no sort of
remark, unless in answer to her companion, and then with very
quiet look and voice. Her changeful face had settled into a
depth of soberness. Perhaps it was because of noticing this
that his manner grew more gently careful of her; in trifles
shown, to be sure, but the touch of a hand and the tone of a
word will tell all that as well as much greater things.
Evidently he read her and was not angry with her; not even
though the way was long and hot, happily it was not dusty--the
shower had laid the dust. With undimmed faces and unsoiled
foot-gear they paced on, rood after rood, and Vixen, drooping
her head, followed at their heels. The groom had been sent
back with the cob, and