Jack seemed suddenly very much interested. “What sort of little girl was it?” he asked.
“I can’t exactly tell you. She was so frightened I had hardly time to look at her. But—”
“What sort of pony?” asked Jack.
“A grey one—and a jolly little animal, too!” I said. “But why do you ask?”
“Only,” said Jack, with a peculiar smile, “because it strikes me very forcibly the young person in question was my sister, that’s all!”
“What!” I exclaimed, in amazement, “your sister!—the little girl of the photograph! Oh, Jack, how extraordinary!”
“It is queer,” said Jack; “but it’s a fact all the same. I heard about it when I was last home. The pony took fright, so they told me, and—wasn’t there a nurse with her?”
“Yes, there was.”
“Yes; that was Mrs Shield. The pony took fright as she was walking beside it, and Mary would have come to grief to a dead certainty, so they both say, if a young gentleman hadn’t rushed up and stopped it. Why, Fred, old man,” said he, taking my hand, “I little thought I owed you all that!”
I took his hand warmly, but humbly.