On the morning of her seventeenth birthday, Grace rode forth upon the new hunter, and tenderly touched 'Cæsar's' flank with a whip of dainty workmanship. Peter, on his black horse, accompanied her, and Mr. Malherb stood at the door of Fox Tor Farm and watched them depart.
"A fine couple," he said to his wife. "One sees that Grace has got my skill in horsemanship now that she is properly mounted."
"And he rides well, too."
"So, so. Better than most young men. She's coming to my way of thinking. She laughs with him now and exchanges jests."
His wife shook her head.
"I misdoubt her. She's a Malherb—a jog-trot tradesman will never win her."
"Have done with such nonsense!" he said sharply. "He is no more a tradesman than am I. You should have better feeling than to use the word."
"She won't marry him, nevertheless," said Mrs. Malherb placidly.
"Will she not? If I am her father she will."
He turned and departed, while his wife, with a cloud upon her countenance, watched Mr. Norcot and Grace climb the steep side of Fox Tor and proceed to the heights above it.