same voice beside her again. The stranger held her riding
whip, which Wych Hazel had left behind her at the cottage; the
little girl had met him, bringing it, he said. And then he
went on--'It is impossible not to know that I am speaking to
Miss Kennedy. I am a stranger in the country, but my aunt,
Mme. Lasalle, is well known to Mr. Falkirk. Will Miss Kennedy
allow me to assist her in remounting?'

It was gracefully said, with quietly modulated tones that
belong only to a high grade of society, and the speaker had a
handsome face and good presence. Nevertheless, Wych Hazel had
no mind to be 'remounted' by any one, and was very near saying
as much; for in her, 'temperament' retarded the progress of
conventionalism sadly. As it was, she gave him a hesitating
assent, and received his proffered assistance. Then lifting
his hat, he stood while she passed on.

It was time to ride, for the sky was dark with clouds, the air
breathless, and sharp growls of thunder spoke in the distance,
at every one of which Vixen made an uneasy motion of ears and
head, to show what she would do when they came nearer.

'We must ride for it, Dingee,'--Miss Hazel said to her dark
attendant.

'Reckon we'll get it, too, Miss Hazel,' was Dingee's reply,
and a heavy drop or two said 'yes, it is coming.' Wych Hazel
laughed at him, cantering along on her black pony like a brown
sprite, the rising wind making free with her hair and hat
ribbands, the rose spray made fast for her buttonhole. But as