as not accustomed either to a
side-saddle, nor to so gentle a hand upon his mouth.

Already, though, his fears were vanishing, and he was longing for the
sound of a human voice and the grip of a hand on his bridle.

"Peter! Peter!" Mr. Carlyle called again. Peter turned swiftly in answer
to the call, caught his hoof in the dangling bridle, and fell heavily on
the soft, wet turf.

This gave the Vicar his chance. Peter was soon on his feet again, but his
bridle was gripped firmly enough now.

"Peter, you ought to be ashamed of yourself." Peter was. He stood beside
his captor shamed, shaken, genuinely distressed. "I wish you could show
me where you dropped your rider, Peter." Peter only flapped his ears, and
threw up his head.

Mr. Carlyle got on his back, in order to get a wider view. "I suppose he
has come from his home; perhaps I had better go in that direction."

Peter seemed to agree with this decision, and, with apparently recovered
spirits, walked on willingly. The Vicar's spirits, though, did not
recover so lightly. His eyes swept the moor anxiously, but in vain, and
his fears increased, for a rider who had been not much hurt would surely
appear soon, coming in search of her horse. If she did not appear it
might forebode the very worst of disasters. For more than half an hour
they searched, but vainly, then suddenly, far ahead of him, almost out of
the ground it seemed, a small white fluttering something appeared, and he
quickened Peter's pace to a gallop.

It was Irene who had been Peter's rider, Irene who, recovering from the
shock and blow of the fall, had struggled up, and waved her handkerchief
in the desperate hope of attracting someone.

She was scratched, bruised and bleeding, and wet to the skin; but her
concern was all for Peter, and her one feeling was joy at seeing him alive
and sound. "Oh, I am so glad!" she cried in a rapture of relief.
"Oh, I am so glad--I could never have gone home and faced grandfather if
anything had happened to Peter." Then suddenly she broke down and burst
into tears. "Oh, I am so thankful," she sobbed. "I have been nearly
crazy with fear!"

"But, my poor child, what about yourself? Peter is all right, but you are
hurt--your face is bleeding, you--you----" He could not tell her what a
pitiable little object she was. One of her eyes was swelled, and fast
discolouring; on her forehead a great lump stood out, scratches decorated
her cheek, from which the