And Miss Juliana Edwards, to whom a compliment on her horsemanship is dearer than anything, smiles in return at the handsome assistant, and agrees to keep a sharp look-out.
The chesnut goes steadily enough—so steadily in fact, that Baby, who is an awful little coward, forgets all about him, and gives her whole attention to her teacher, who, in the neatest of grey tweed suits, and with an unimpeachable wide-a-wake perched jauntily on his curly head, looks quite the gentleman.
“I wish you had been at the State Ball last night!” she says, with a beaming smile, that almost takes the young fellow’s breath away.
“I! fancy me at a State Ball, Miss Mirabelle!”
“Why not? I am sure there was no one so good-looking as you there!” she cries, looking admiringly at the trim, slight figure, and the straight features and undeniably winsome eyes of her companion. “I wish you would not call me Miss Mirabelle!” she adds with a little pout of her charming red lips.
He reddens visibly as he hearkens.
“I dare not call you anything else, Miss Mirabelle!” he almost whispers, his heart throbbing violently under his tweed waistcoat.
“There it is again! Miss Mirabelle! why can’t you say ‘Mirabelle,’ when—when—we are quite alone?” she asks impatiently, throwing a covert glance towards the other riders to see if they are out of earshot.
“Oh! I couldn’t!” he murmurs very low—shy of speech—but his large hazel eyes are eloquent enough. “I would as soon think of calling the angels by their names!” he goes on nervously.
“I have heard of Michael as the name of an archangel, but I don’t think the female angels have any names,” Baby says irreverently. “Do you think me an angel? because I’m not, not the very least bit in the world. The governor calls me a little devil, and I know my sisters don’t think me an angel!” she laughs.