Doaty was as good as gold—at least so thought one of the party—and manifested no intention of budging an inch.
“What a tiresome pony!” exclaimed Miss O’Byrne. “I shall have to beat him.”
“Let me try and get him along.” And Phil, taking hold of the shaggy mane, lugged the unwilling Doaty along in the direction of the lake.
“This is really too bad, sir,” remonstrated Miss O’Byrne. “I cannot tax you in this way.”
“It is no tax, I assure you. I have nothing on earth to do but to revel in the especial sunshine of this moment.”
This was said with ever so slight an emphasis; nevertheless it bore a scarlet blossom in the rich blush which came whispering all over the young girl’s charming pallor.
“You—you are a stranger here?”
“I am, and yet I ought not to be.”
“This savors of a riddle.”
“Very easily solved. My fore-fathers hunted these hills and fished that lake. My father was reckless, extravagant, and new men came into possession of the old acres. My father emigrated, and made a great deal of money in New York, and—”