“Or to-day,” suggested Rose: “there’s plenty of time; and you can have the pony, as your horse is tired. Won’t you, Gilbert—as soon as you’ve had something to eat?”
“No, no—how can we tell that it isn’t all a false report? It’s highly im-”
“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t; for the village is all alive about it; and I saw two people that had seen others that had seen the man that found him. That sounds far-fetched; but it isn’t so when you think of it.”
“Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he would fall from his horse at all; and if he did, it is highly improbable he would break his bones in that way. It must be a gross exaggeration at least.”
“No; but the horse kicked him—or something.”
“What, his quiet little pony?”
“How do you know it was that?”
“He seldom rides any other.”
“At any rate,” said my mother, “you will call to-morrow. Whether it be true or false, exaggerated or otherwise, we shall like to know how he is.”
“Fergus may go.”