"Now," said the lad, speaking for the first time, "please unbuckle those backing straps and unhook the traces."
The girl, though unaccustomed to be ordered in this manner, saw the necessity of complying, since her rescuer did not dare to leave his position at the mare's head.
"Now, let me have the halter in the chaise."
The girl produced it, and the animal thus secured was led out of the half-ruined shafts.
Parson Trant, in the meantime, had disengaged himself from the unwelcome embrace of the nettles and thistles. Picking up his shovel-shaped hat and dusting it with his handkerchief, he placed it on his head after first arranging his scattered locks, and then hurried forward to assist the squire's daughter. That young lady had, however, finished the work before his arrival.
"Well, well, well!" exclaimed the parson, as he came up, puffing with over-exertion and mopping the perspiration from his brow. "That was a narrow escape, Mistress Alice—thank God for it—also—this brave young man. Mistress Alice, this is Master Ande Trembath."
The parson in the midst of his hurry had neither forgotten his religion nor his courtesy that seemed inherent in his very nature, but he little realised the ludicrous figure he presented in that scene. His neckerchief was all awry; one coat-tail was sadly torn by the violence of his fall and was now hanging in a most melancholy manner by a few threads from his coat; his broadcloth trowsers were soiled and covered with nettle stickers and thistle down; and his hat, in the hurry of putting it on, was located on one side of his head in a most rakish and disreputable manner.
A silvery peal of laughter from the girl, which was joined by a hastily suppressed chuckle from Ande, caused the rector to notice his condition and he was much chagrined in consequence. There was a flush on his countenance that made both of the young parties regret their hasty merriment.
"Parson Trant, you must pardon my rudeness in pushing you aside, but if I hadn't done it we both might have been hurt."