“May I give her an apple?” said Virginia, as she turned her slow, dark look from Bonnibel to her master. That sagacious damosel was already reaching after the coveted golden ball in the girl’s hand, with cajoling little movements of her soft nose. Having obtained permission, Miss Herrick threw one arm over the mare’s graceful crest and presented her with the apple—one of those renowned Albemarle pippins on which no duty is demanded by England’s gracious queen.
Bonnibel ate it with evident participation in her sovereign’s good taste, rubbing her handsome head against the girl’s arm with an almost cat-like softness of caress.
“I don’ s’pose any one ever rides her but you?” said Virginia, with a suggestion of wistfulness in her low voice.
“Well, no,” said Roden; “only the lad who gives her her gallops. She is as kind as a kitten, but rather hot-headed and excitable. Why do you ask? Would you like to ride her?”
“Yes, of co’se I would,” said the girl, calmly; “but you needn’t bother; I know how Englishmen are ’bout their horses. Some time, if the boy as rides her gets sick, if you’ll let me I’ll show you whether I kin ride or no.”
“Your father says you ride like an Indian,” said Roden.
She moved her shoulders beneath her loose gray jacket with something very like a shrug. “I don’t bleeve father ever saw a Injun in his life,” she remarked. “You wait; I’ll show you.”
“I don’t doubt you have a good seat,” said Roden, pleasantly; he took particular pains to speak pleasantly always to Herrick and his daughter. “But the chief thing with a horse like Bonnibel is the hands. How are you about that?”
“How do you mean?” she said, puzzled.