"He has a little slip of a wife," explained Gabriella to herself.
"I'm in her seat: that's why he's used to it."

So SHE got used to it; and soon felt a frank comfort in being able
to nestle freely against him--to cling to him like a bat to a warm
wall. For cling sometimes she must. He was driving a sorrel fresh
from pasture, with long, ragged hoofs, burrs in mane and tail, and
a wild desire to get home to her foal; so that she fled across the
country--bridges, ditches, everything, frantic with maternal
passion. One circumstance made for Gabriella's security: the buggy
tilted over toward him so low, that she could not conveniently roll
out: instead she felt as though she were being whirled around a
steep hillside.

Meantime, how he talked to her! Told her the school was all made
up: what families were going to send, and how many children from
each. They had all heard from the superintendent what a fine
teacher she was (not for nothing is it said that things are handed
along kindly in Kentucky)!

"Oh," murmured Gabriella to herself, "if the family are only like
HIM!" The mere way in which he called her by her first name, as
though she were an old friend--a sort of old sweetheart of his whom
for some reason he had failed to marry--filled her with perfect
trust.

"That's my house!" he said at last, pointing with extended arm and
whip (which latter he had no occasion to use) across the open
country.