father and daughter--over which they must pass to meet. And I do not
believe that any two human beings alive know yet what it is to love as love
is in the glorious will of the Father of lights.

I linger on with my talk, for I shrink from what I must relate.

We were going at a gentle trot, silent, along a woodland path--a brown,
soft, shady road, nearly five miles from home, our horses scattering about
the withered leaves that lay thick upon it. A good deal of underwood and
a few large trees had been lately cleared from the place. There were many
piles of fagots about, and a great log lying here and there along the side
of the path. One of these, when a tree, had been struck by lightning, and
had stood till the frosts and rains had bared it of its bark. Now it lay
white as a skeleton by the side of the path, and was, I think, the cause of
what followed. All at once my daughter's pony sprang to the other side of
the road, shying sideways; unsettled her so, I presume; then rearing and
plunging, threw her from the saddle across one of the logs of which I have
spoken. I was by her side in a moment. To my horror she lay motionless. Her
eyes were closed, and when I took her up in my arms she did not open them.
I laid her on the moss, and got some water and sprinkled her face. Then she
revived a little; but seemed in much pain, and all at once went off into
another faint. I was in terrible perplexity.

Presently a man who, having been cutting fagots at a little distance, had
seen the pony careering through the wood, came up and asked what he could
do to help me. I told him to take my horse, whose bridle I had thrown over
the latch of a gate, and ride to Oldcastle Hall, and ask Mrs. Walton to
come with the carriage as quickly as possible. "Tell her," I said, "that
her daughter has had a fall from her pony, and is rather shaken. Ride as
hard as you can go."