Grace said little on her entrance, but her eyes were brighter than usual, and she looked so contented and happy that Emily observed to her, in an affectionate manner—­

“I knew the eau-de-Cologne would do your head good.”

“Is Miss Chatterton unwell?” asked John, with a look of interest.

“A slight headache,” said Grace, faintly, “but I feel much better.”

“Want of air and exercise:  my horses are at the door; phaeton will hold three easily; run, sister, for your hat,” almost pushing Emily out of the room as he spoke.  In a few; minutes the horses might have been suffering for air, but surely not for exercise.

“I wish,” cried John, with impatience, when at the distance of a couple of miles from the parsonage, “that gentleman had driven his gig out of the road.”

There was a small group on one side of the road, consisting of a man, a woman, and several children.  The owner of the gig had alighted, and was in the act of speaking to them, as the phaeton approached at a great rate.

“John,” cried Emily, in terror, “You never can pass—­you upset us.”

“There is no danger, dear Grace,” said the brother, endeavoring to check his horses; he succeeded in part, but not so as to prevent his passing at a spot where the road was very narrow; a wheel hit violently against a stone, and some of his works gave way.  The gentleman immediately hastened to his assistance—­it was Denbigh.

“Miss Moseley!” cried he, in a voice of the tenderest interest “you are not hurt in the least, I hope.”

“No,” said Emily, recovering her breath, “only frightened;” and taking his hand, she sprang from the carriage.

Miss Chatterton found courage to wait quietly for the care of John.  His “dear Grace,” had thrilled on every nerve, and she afterwards often laughed at Emily for her terror when there was so little danger.  The horses were not in the least frightened, and after a little mending, John declared all was safe.  To ask Emily to enter, the carriage again, was to exact no little sacrifice of her feelings to her reason; and she stood in a suspense that too plainly showed that, the terror she had been in had not left her.

“If,” said Denbigh, modestly, “if Mr. Moseley will take the ladies in my gig, I will drive the phaeton to the hall, as it is rather unsafe for so heavy a load.”

“No, no, Denbigh,” said John, coolly, “you are not used to such mettled nags as mine—­it would be indiscreet for you to drive them:  if, however, you will be good enough to take Emily into your gig—­Grace Chatterton, I am sure, is not afraid to trust my driving, and we might all get back as well as ever.”