“Is that your horse Sultan?” I called from my window next morning, as I looked down upon my cousin, who was coming up the drive from an early gallop on the moors.
“Yes, bonny Sybil; come and admire him,” he called back, hat in hand, and a quick smile rippling over his face.
I went, and, standing on the terrace, caressed the handsome creature, while Guy said, glancing up at his father’s undrawn curtains,—
“If your saddle had come, we would take a turn before ‘my lord’ is ready for breakfast. This autumn air is the wine you women need.”
I yearned to go, and when I willed the way soon appeared; so careless of bonnetless head and cambric gown, I stretched my hands to him, saying boldly,—
“Play young Lochinvar, Guy; I am little and light; take me up before you and show me the sea.”
He liked the daring feat, held out his hand, I stepped on his boot toe, sprang up, and away we went over the wide moor, where the sun shone in a cloudless heaven, the lark soared singing from the green grass at our feet, and the September wind blew freshly from the sea. As we paused on the upland slope, that gave us a free view of the country for miles, Guy dismounted, and, standing with his arm about the saddle to steady me in my precarious seat, began to talk.
“Do you like your new home, cousin?”
“More than I can tell you!”
“And my father, Sybil?”