soft mould of the flower-borders.

The devastating track of the pony's feet was the last misdeed that
cut him off from all sympathy of Humanity. He turned into the
road, leaned forward, and rode as fast as the pony could put foot
to the ground in the direction of the river.

But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little against the
long canter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was far ahead, had passed
through the crops, beyond the Police-posts, when all the guards
were asleep, and her mount was scattering the pebbles of the
river-bed as Wee Willie Winkie left the cantonment and British
India behind him. Bowed forward and still flogging, Wee Willie
Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and could just see Miss
Allardyce a black speck flickering across the stony plain. The
reason of her wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of
too-hastily-assumed authority, had told her over night that she
must not ride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her own
spirit and teach Coppy a lesson.

Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee Willie Winkie
saw the Waler blunder and come down heavily. Miss Allardyce
struggled clear, but her ankle had been severely twisted, and she
could not stand. Having fully shown her spirit, she wept, and was
surprised by the apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki,
on a nearly spent pony.

"Are you badly, badly hurted?" shouted Wee Willie Winkie, as soon
as he was within range. "You didn't ought to be here."