“Are you satisfied? Are you no longer hungry?” Robina nodded.
“Then leave the room.”
Robina did so. The next minute she was out of the house, and had rushed round to the stables.
“Jim!” she said to the man who had charge of the old grey horse and the very humble chaise which was the only conveyance known at Heather House—the name of Robina’s home. “Jim: there is a very beautiful pony coming here to-morrow; or he may not arrive till the next day. He is mine; and I want him to have a stable all to himself, and I want to hire a proper groom to see after him. Do you know any nice boy in the village who can be trained to look after my pony?”
Jim, who had always a secret admiration for Miss Robina as a fine, manly sort of young lady who could ride old Dobbin bareback from the time she could walk, and whom he had secretly provided with many a less safe seat on neighbours’ horses, now answered with alacrity:
“You don’t mean, miss, as Mr Starling has gone and bought you a pony of your own?”
“No, Jim; nothing of the sort. It is such a comfort to confide in you, Jim: I won the pony as a prize at school.”
“Lawk-a-mercy!” said Jim: “what queer prizes they do have at that school, now!”
“Shall I tell you how I won it? I was good to a child.”
“Lor! miss.”