“That’s right, sir. I bred him speshly for you, Master Nic. He was to be for you, and you won’t ride him too hard, will you?”
“Why, it would be a sin!” cried Nic.
“Sin ain’t half bad enough word for it, sir,” cried the old man. “Any one as’d hurt a horse with a temper like Sorrel, and such a willin’ heart, ud do anything wicked, I don’t care what it is. Why, I don’t believe even a lifer ud do that.”
“What’s a lifer?” asked Nic.
“Transported for life, sir.”
“Oh yes, I remember now,” said Nic, as they turned into the long wooden stable. “Ah, father! you up already?”
“’Morning, Nic, my boy. Oh yes, we are early birds here. Been round the farm?”
“Yes, some of it. He has been showing me.”
“Well, do you think you can be content with our rough life?”
“Oh, I say, father!” cried Nic protestingly, “don’t talk to me like that! Like it? Everything seems too good. Why, I love it already.”