But Simon saw the blood, and sprang to his side.
“What the devil are you about, making a fool of me, Dick!” he cried. “Get out of the way.”
“It was my fault,” said the sweetest voice from under the neck of the mare, to the top of which a tiny hand was trying to reach. “My feather must have tickled her nose!”
She caught a glimpse of the blood, and turned white.
“I am so sorry!” she said, almost tearfully. “I hope you're not much hurt, Richard!”
Nothing seemed to escape her; she had already learned his name!
“It's not worth being sorry about, miss!” returned Richard, with a laugh. “The mare meant no harm!”
“That I'm sure she didn't—poor Miss Brown!” answered the girl, patting the mare's neck. “But I wish it had been my hand instead!”
“God forbid!” cried Richard. “That would have been a calamity!”
“It wouldn't have been half so great a one. My hand is—well, not of much use. Yours can shoe a horse!”