Flora nodded.
"Well, you may give my respects to the old lady, when you see her, and tell her I have got it too."
"I will. Want to go to ride, now."
"And you won't scramble up?"
"Want you to get down."
The driver laughed, but held out his hand, and bade her take a good hold. The hand was very red, and it was greasy; but Flora did not mind that. She grasped it firmly, and was lifted to the narrow seat, and then the lame horse started into a jog. Beside being narrow, the seat was so short that Flora had to sit very close to the greasy driver, and her pretty blue dress was not improved by contact with his frock, which was blue, also.
"Papa's horse does not dance that way," she said, regretfully.
"It isn't every horse that can be trained to that sort of thing," returned the driver, gravely. "Mine, now, is one out of a thousand. How will your pa swap?"
"I wish he would," she answered earnestly, for the first time looking her companion full in the face. "Why!" she exclaimed, joyfully, "It is you, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes! it's me. Have you just found that out?"