_raised_, for no bird ever hopped more lightly from one twig to another
than she sprung from the ground on her pony's back.

In a moment I was beside her, and away we rode.

The shadows were still long, the dew still pearly on the spiders' webs, as
we trotted out of our own grounds into a lane that led away towards the
high road. Our horses were fresh and the air was exciting; so we turned
from the hard road into the first suitable field, and had a gallop to begin
with. Constance was a good horse-woman, for she had been used to the saddle
longer than she could remember. She was now riding a tall well-bred pony,
with plenty of life--rather too much, I sometimes thought, when I was out
with Wynnie; but I never thought so when I was with Constance. Another
field or two sufficiently quieted both animals--I did not want to have all
our time taken up with their frolics--and then we began to talk.

"You are getting quite a woman now, Connie, my dear," I said.

"Quite an old grannie, papa," she answered.

"Old enough to think about what's coming next," I said gravely.

"O, papa! And you are always telling us that we must not think about the
morrow, or even the next hour. But, then, that's in the pulpit," she added,
with a sly look up at me from under the drooping feather of her pretty hat.

"You know very well what I mean, you puss," I answered. "And I don't say
one thing in the pulpit and another out of it."

She was at my horse's shoulder with a bound, as if Spry, her pony, had been