“Please, father, Dick frightens me when he does so.”
“Can't you ride a little faster, Pretty? Whoa, I tell ye!”
“In just a minute, father, I'll catch up with you. Oh, father, please! Suppose Dick should frighten Fanny, and make her run, I could never hold her. Please, father!”
The Squire had small choice, for the sorrel gave a fierce plunge ahead and almost bolted. “Follow as fast as you can, Pretty!” he shouted back.
There was a curve in the road just ahead, the Squire was out of sight around it in a flash. Lucina reined her horse in, and waited as motionless as a little equestrian statue. She did not look around for a moment or two—she hoped Jerome would overtake her without that. A strange terror was over her, but he did not.
Finally she looked. He was coming very slowly; he scarcely seemed to move, and was yet quite a distance behind. “I can't wait,” Lucina thought, piteously. She turned her horse and rode back to him. He stopped when she came alongside. “Good-evening,” said she, tremulously.
“Good-evening,” said Jerome. He made such an effort to speak that his voice sounded like a harsh trumpet.
Lucina forgot her pretty little speech. “I wanted to say that I was sorry if I offended you,” she said, faintly.
Jerome had no idea what she meant; he could, indeed, scarcely take in, until later, thinking of them, the sense of her words. He tried to speak, but made only an inarticulate jumble of sounds.
“I hope you will pardon me,” said Lucina.