“I don’t know why you should say that, Olivia,” he said. “I—you—have seen a great deal of him——”
“That is true,” responded Olivia, dryly, “and all we have seen is to his credit. Don’t let us discuss Mr. Bradstone, papa,” she was saying almost pleadingly, when the butler entered, and, approaching the squire, said something in a low and guarded voice, and the squire’s face changed.
But Olivia’s ears were quick, and she caught the word “accident.”
“Oh, papa! what is it? Tell me, Fleming.” Fleming, the butler, glanced from her to the squire. “Something has happened,” she said, growing pale, but speaking calmly and composedly, for Olivia was not hysterical by any means. “What is it? Why do you not tell me, papa?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” said the squire, putting his hand upon her arm. “There has been an accident. Tell us again, Fleming; you need not be afraid of your mistress.”
“It’s Bessie Alford, Miss Olivia,” began the butler.
“Ah!” breathed Olivia, with a little, piteous catch in her voice. “Poor Bessie! the pony!”
“Yes, miss,” said Fleming, gravely. “The pony—she was driving him home—has run away with her. I always told Alford that it wasn’t safe for her to drive. He’s run away and Bessie is hurt.”
Olivia’s face grew pale.
“Bessie hurt!” she murmured, piteously.