‘He has never been down before,’ said she tearfully. ‘Poor Nigger! Good old fellow! I should n’t have driven you so fast down the hill.’
‘His legs should be attended to at once,’ said the stranger practically. ‘Have you far to go?’
‘Oh yes—sixteen miles. To Branston.’
He darted a keen glance at her.
‘Branston,’ he echoed. ‘I am going there myself to-morrow, or rather I am going to a place about a mile this side of it.’
‘Well, I, too, stop a little this side of the town,’ said Rosalie. ‘But poor Nigger will never get so far. What am I to do? I must get home to-night.’
‘There is a village a mile or so from here,’ observed the young man. ‘I think your best plan would be to leave the horse at the inn there. They would probably lend you another to take you home. If you will get into the trap I will lead the horse slowly back.’
‘Oh no, I will walk,’ cried Rosalie; ‘I can lead him myself,’ she added diffidently. ‘I don’t like to take you out of your way—besides, you have your bicycle. I suppose you are going to Dorchester?’
‘I can go to Dorchester any time,’ returned he. ‘’T is merely a fancy of mine that takes me there. I’ve a wish to see the old place again, having been away from it for ten years. But I am really on my way to visit my uncle. If you know Branston, I dare say you have met him. He lives near Littlecomb Village, at a place called the Down Farm.’
‘Mr. Isaac Sharpe!’ ejaculated Rosalie. ‘Indeed, I do know him. I live next door to him.’