A great Sussex wain, top-heavy with hay, was drawing out of a farmyard among trees, a quarter of a mile away. A white horse was in the shafts, and a black in the lead. Two Grenadiers were at the head of the black leader, who was giving trouble. Others in shirt-sleeves were mounting to the top of the load.
"Old Gander's wain," said the Parson. "That's old mare Jenny in the shafts, and her three-year-old daughter in the lead. Ha, Miss Blossom!—That's your sort!—Knock em sprawling!—Teach the Mossoos to handle an English lady!"
A tall man ran out of the farmyard, a snow-storm of white-frocked children pursuing him; and even at that distance Parson and boy could hear them screaming laughter. The tall man snatched up one and kissed her. Then he took off his hat with an enormous sweep to the others, and turned.
"Humph! posing rather prettily this time!" muttered the Parson, watching kind-eyed.
On the top of the wain, clear against the sky, a tall figure now rose, and gathered the rope-reins in his hand.
The men at the leader's head jumped aside.
Up she went, sky-high.
The coachman handled her as a mother handles a wilful child. The wind was towards them, and they could hear him singing to her.
"Hum! he can handle the ribands a bit," muttered the Parson, watching intently. "Miss Blossom's never tasted a bit before."
The filly dropped, and flung forward with the shock of a breaking wave.