the pastern,
short in the back, a good sloping shoulder, broad in the chest and the
forehead, long in the belly, and just the least bit over fifteen
hands--eh, Mr. Thoms? I don't think beauty's of much consequence when
your neck's in question. Let him be as angular and ragged in the hips
as you like, so long's his ribs are well up to the hip-bone. Have you
seen that black horse that young Trelyon rides?"

"'Tis a noble beast, sir--a noble beast," the farmer said; and he
would probably have gone on to state what ideal animal had been
constructed by his lavish imagination had not a man come running up at
this moment, breathless and almost speechless.

"Rosewarne," stammered Mr. Roscorla, "a--a word with you! I want to
say--"

The farmer, seeing he was in the way, called out a careless good-night
and rode on.

"Well, what's the matter?" said George Rosewarne a little snappishly:
he did not like being worried by excitable people.

"Your daughters!" gasped Mr. Roscorla. "They've both run away--both of
them--this minute--with Trelyon! You'll have to ride after them.
They're straight away along the high-road."

"Both of them? The infernal young fools!" said Rosewarne. "Why the
devil didn't you stop them yourself?"

"How could I?" Roscorla said, amazed that the father took the flight
of his daughters with apparent equanimity. "You must make haste, Mr.
Rosewarne, or you'll never catch them."

"I've a good mind to let 'em go," said he sulkily as he walked over to
the stables of the inn. "The notion of a man having to set out on this
wild-goose chase at this time o' night! Run away, have they? and what
in all the world have they run away for?"

It occurred to him, however, that the sooner he got a horse saddled
and set out, the less distance he would have to go in pursuit; and
that consideration quickened his movements.

"What's it all about?" said he to Roscorla, who had followed him into
the stable.

"I suppose they mean a runaway match," said Mr. Roscorla, helping to
saddle George Rosewarne's cob, a famous trotter.

"It's that young devil's limb, Mabyn, I'll be bound," said the father.
"I wish to Heaven somebody would marry her!--I don't care who. She's
always up to some confounded mischief."

"No, no, no," Roscorla said: "it's Wenna he means to marry."

"Why, you were to have married Wenna?"

"Yes, but--"

"Then why didn't you? So she's run away, has she?" George Rosewarne
grinned: he saw how the matter l