“You are merry,” he said after a time, accommodating the speed of his horse to that of the wagon in which the girls rode. His manner had brightened perceptibly since the beginning of the journey, and he spoke lightly. “Yet I feared that you might be annoyed by the smell of fish. They are oyster wagons, you know.”
“Is it fish that we smell?” cried Sally, laughing for very joyousness, and forgetting to wonder at the unusualness of his addressing them. “Methought it was the pines.”
“Nay; ’tis fish,” he declared. “At what are you looking, Mistress Peggy?”
“I am admiring thy horse,” she replied. “’Tis a beauty. Almost as pretty as my own little mare.”
“Nay,” he protested. “Few animals are that. Star hath not many equals.”
Peggy flushed with pleasure. Praise of her little mare always delighted her.
“Thee can afford to be unstinted in thy praise when thine own mount hath so much of beauty,” she remarked.
“And what has thee named her?” questioned Sally. “It should be something charming.”
“A name hath just occurred to me that is both charming and uncommon,” he responded, meeting her glance without blushing. It was the first time that she had seen him so much at ease in ordinary intercourse, Peggy reflected marveling. “I think,” continued the youth, “that no other horse ever bore it.”
“Then it must be unusual,” declared Sally. “Thee makes me very curious, Friend Fairfax. What is it?”