"One to me—in our game, you know," said the young fellow. "The game we agreed to play, yesterday."
"Yes—it's one to you. By the bye—you're not hurt anywhere, are you?"
She looked him over, as she had looked over her mare, with the same critical glance. His clothes were a little torn, here and there, being but light summer things, and his hat had disappeared, but it was tolerably clear that he was in no way injured.
"Oh, I'm all right," he answered cheerfully. "I should think you'd feel badly shaken, though," he added, with sudden anxiety.
"Not at all," said Fanny, determined to show no more emotion or excitement than he. "It was a case of sitting still—neck or nothing. It's nothing, as it happens."
At that moment Brinsley appeared, riding slowly through the trees, for fear of frightening the mare again.
"Are you hurt?" he shouted.
Fanny looked round, saw him, and shook her head, with a smile. Brinsley trotted up and sprang from his horse.
"Are you sure you're not hurt?" he asked again.
"Not in the least!"