ences.

The most extraordinary raving of all, however, was that which referred
to my stopping the little girl's runaway pony at Packworth years ago--an
incident I don't believe I had ever once thought of since.

It was curious, too, that, now it was called to memory, I thought of the
adventure a good deal, and wished I knew what had become of the owner of
that restive little pony. I determined to tell Jack about it when he
came home.

"What do you think, Jack?" I said, as he was tucking me up for the
night. "Billy has been telling me what I was talking about in my fever,
and says one thing I discoursed about was a little girl who was being
run away with by a pony."

"Yes," said Jack, laughing; "I heard that. It was quite a new light for
you, old man, to be dreaming of that sort of romantic thing."

"But it really happened once," I said.

"No! where? I thought the Henniker and Mrs Nash were the only lady
friends you ever had? Where was it?"

"At Packworth, of all places," I said. "It was that day I went over to
try and find you out--just before we came up to London, you know. I was
walking back to Brownstroke, and met the pony bolting down the road."

Jack seemed suddenly very much interested. "What sort of little girl
was it?" he asked.

"I can't exactly tell you. She was so frightened I had hardly time to
look at her. But--"

"What sort of pony?" asked Jack.

"A grey one--and a jolly little animal, too!" I said. "But why do you
ask?"

"Only," said Jack, with a peculiar smile, "because it strikes me very
forcibly the young person in question was my sister, that's all!"

"What!" I exclaimed, in amazement, "your sister!--the little girl of
the photograph! Oh, Jack, how extraordinary!"

"It is queer," said Jack; "but it's a fact all the same. I heard about
it when I was last home. The pony took fright, so they told me, and--
wasn't there a nurse with her?"

"Yes, there was."

"Yes; that was Mrs Shield. The pony took fright as she was walking
beside it, and Mary would have come to grief to a dead certainty, so
they both say, if a young gentleman hadn't rushed up and stopped it.
Why, Fred, old man," said he, taking my hand, "I little thought I owed
you all that!"

I took his hand warmly, but humbly.

"Jack," I said, "I think it's almost time you and I gave up talking
about what we owe to one another. But," I added, after a moment, "if
you do want to do me a favour, just let us have