Meanwhile, almost another year has passed away. Little Annie Hartland is creeping about the carpet, or pushing herself round with a chair, and, under great persuasion and generous bribery, making some diffident attempts to talk. Isabel has been at home some weeks, and is domiciled in her own old room. Philip's visits are frequent, but short and uncertain, for though a rich he is by no means an idle man. All are improving the last beautiful days of autumn, in anticipation of the disagreeable weather of settled winter.
Fanny, especially, who was fond of riding and a capital horsewoman, rode almost every afternoon, sometimes without any escort, and sometimes accompanied by Robert, who was very proud of the elegant figure his sister made on her spirited yet gentle horse.
On one of the loveliest of these days, as George, returning from a long walk, was sauntering up the drive, he was startled at seeing Robert upon the lower end of the piazza without a hat, trembling, and excessively pale.
"Do you know? did you see her?" he asked, quivering with excitement, and without waiting for an answer, "Fan—she's been thrown—and mother says she's been terribly hurt."
"Where was she? who was with her? is she here?"
"In mother's room. Where were you that you did not see it?"
"I have been in the other direction, up toward the academy. Has Philip come?"
"Yes, he came just before Fan was hurt."
George went up-stairs, and found Fanny quite insensible.
The poor child was settled in her mother's room, out of the way of Isabel, whose little boy was only a week old, and from whom the sad news was to be kept as long as possible. For some days it seemed very doubtful whether Fanny would recover; but her youth prevailed, and at last the doctor pronounced that, with great care, she would be perfectly restored, though she would scarcely be able to leave the house before spring.