Of course I have said the wrong thing. The moment my speech is finished I know this. Mr. Carrington's eyes leave mine; he mutters something between his teeth, and brings the whip down sharply on the far leader. "These brutes grow lazier every day," he says with an unmistakable frown. Five--six minutes pass, and he does not address me. I feel annoyed with myself, yet innocent of having intentionally offended. Presently stealing a glance at my companion, I say, contritely,--- "Have I vexed you, Mr. Carrington?" "No, no," he answers, hastily, the smile coming home to his lips. "Don't think so. Surely, truthfulness, being so rare a virtue, should be precious. I am an irritable fellow at times, and you are finding out all my faults to-night," he says, rather sadly, laying his hand for an instant upon mine, as it lies bare and small and brown upon the rug. "You have proved me both ill-tempered and selfish. You will say I am full of defects." "Indeed I will not," I return, earnestly, touched by his manner: "I do not even see the faults you mention; and at all events no one was ever before so kind to me as you have been." "I would be kinder if I dared," he says, somewhat unsteadily. While I ponder on what these words may mean, while the first dim foreboding--suspicion--what you will--enters my mind, we see Rylston, and pull up to give the Hastings time to alight and bid their adieux. Then we go on again, always in the strange silence that has fallen upon us, and presently find ourselves at home. Mr. Carrington is on the ground in a moment, and comes round to my side to help me down. I hold out my hands and prepare for a good spring (a clear jump at any time is delightful to me); but he disappoints my hopes by taking me in his arms and placing me gently on the gravel; after which he goes instantly to Dora. When we are all safely landed, papa, to our unmitigated astonishment, comes forward, and not only asks but presses Mr. Carrington to stay and dine. Perhaps, considering he has four horses and two grooms in his train, our father guesses he will refuse the invitation. At all events he does so very graciously, and, raising his hat, drives off, leaving us free to surround and relate to mother all the glories of the day. CHAPTER VIII The following Monday, as I
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