the terrified Clochette, and to lead
her towards the gate.

In another three minutes they were all safely within the shelter of the
hedge. The traction engine passed, snorting forth fire and smoke, on its
devastating way; and Clochette stood by, panting, trembling, and covered
with foam. Beatrice, safely on the ground, was examining ruefully the
amount of damage done to the dog-cart, and Mr. Esterworth was shaking
hands with his deliverer.

It was Herbert Pryme.

"That's the last time I ever take a lady out, driving without a
man-servant behind me," quoth the M.F.H. "What we should have done
without your timely assistance, sir, I really cannot say; in another
minute she would have kicked the trap into a thousand bits. You have
saved my niece's life, Mr. Pryme."

"Indeed, I did very little," said Herbert, modestly, glancing at Beatrice
who was trembling and rather pale; but, perhaps, that was only from her
recent fright. She had not spoken to him, only she had given him one
bewildered glance, and then had looked hastily away.

"You have saved her life," repeated Mr. Esterworth, with decision. "I
hope you do not mean to contradict my words, sir? You have saved
Beatrice's life, sir, and it's the most providential thing in this world
for you, as Clochette very nearly kicked her to pieces under your nose.
I shall tell Mr. and Mrs. Miller that they are indebted to you for their
daughter's life. Young people, I am going to lead this brute of a mare
home, and, if you like to walk on together to Lutterton in front of me,
why you may."

That was how Herbert Pryme came to be once more re-instated in the good
graces of his lady love's father and mother.

Mr. Esterworth contrived to give them so terrifying an account of
the danger in which Beatrice had been placed, and so graphic and
highly-coloured a description of Herbert Pryme's pluck and sagacity in
rushing to her rescue, that Mr. and Mrs. Miller had no other course left
than to shake hands gratefully with the man to whom, as uncle Tom said,
they literally owed her life.

"I could not have saved her without him," said uncle Tom, drawing
slightly upon his imagination; "in another minute she must have been
kicked to pieces, or dashed violently to the earth among the broken
fragments of the cart, and"--with a happy after-thought--"the steam
plough would have crushed its way over her mangled body."

Mrs. Miller shuddered.

"Oh, Tom, I never can trust her to you again!"