"I suppose," said Mr. Rutledge, "you don't like riding on horseback?"
Like it! There was no need to answer; my face told fully my enthusiastic preference for that mode of travel.
"I do not know if there is any horse in the stable that I would venture to let you ride. Madge I am afraid of. How long since you've ridden?"
"Not since I've been away at school; but I'm not a bit afraid. I used to ride constantly at home. I had the dearest little pony; but he was spirited enough, and I always managed him. I don't really think you need be afraid to trust me," I went on, pleadingly.
Mr. Rutledge shook his head; Madge was only fit for an experienced rider; she was too full of spirit for such a child to manage. Now, Madge had been my secret admiration ever since I had had the entrée of the stables, and I felt that life offered, at that moment, no more tempting honor than a seat on her back; and it may be supposed I was not lukewarm in my pleading. I urged, coaxed, entreated; I appealed to his generosity, I promised everlasting gratitude.
"Dear Mr. Rutledge," I cried, "you know I go at my own risk; it will be my own fault if anything happens to me. And oh! it will be so unkind if you refuse me the very first favor I ever asked of you!"
I am not sure about the tears at this point of the petition, though I was quite in earnest enough to have cried, and I had begun to appreciate the availability of tears as a weapon sufficiently to have used them if they had occurred. Certain it is, however, that Mr. Rutledge began to relent, and at last, though evidently much against his better judgment, gave the desired permission.
"But remember, I don't approve it."
"Oh! but you will," I exclaimed, "when you see how quiet she'll be with me!"
"And you have no habit," he continued.