“Everybody meant well, I’ve no doubt, and the thing is all over now.”
John was blanketing the sweating horses.
“Don’t let it worry you an instant, Mr. Vernon,” said she. “It was all an accident.”
I tried to get them to come indoors and take some refreshment, for the last few moments had been more strenuous than simple, but they decided that it was better for the horses to exercise them a little more and so they drove slowly home, and Bert went after his horse which had not hurt itself, and the minister went on to pick up his wife whom he had left at the first turn.
“And it was really all your fault,” said Ethel, smilingly, after James and Minerva had departed to the kitchen.
“Well, it gave Minerva something to think about and made life worth living for the Guernseas.”
CHAPTER XIII
AN UNSUCCESSFUL FIASCO.
I AM not quite sure whether I have spoken of it but by profession, trade, occupation, I am a writer. I write short stories under an assumed name and therefore the telling of the events of the summer is in a manner easy for me.
But I not only write stories; I also at times read stories, and I have been known to recite—not in an impassioned way but merely foolishly. The previous winter had been a hard one in more ways than one for both Ethel and myself, but toward the close of it the winning of a prize in a story competition had given me enough money to enable me to knock off work for all summer, and it had seemed wise to take advantage of such a chance to rest and lie fallow.