“It is a wonder you were not thrown out,” I interrupted, “those carts are so tall.”

“Yes,” she answered, “and if I hadn’t slipped off the driving-cushion at the first shy I would have been out sure.  I never had anything happen like this, but who could have expected a great bear by the side of the road?”

“Have you far to go?” I asked.

“Not very—­about three miles.  I made a call this morning on the other road, and was driving home.  My name is Miss Larramie.  My father’s place is on this road.  He is Henry Esmond Larramie.”  I had heard of the gentleman, but had never met him.  “I am not afraid of horses,” she continued, “but I do not know about driving this one now.  He looks as if he were all ready to bolt again.”

“Oh, it would not do for you to drive him,” I said.  “That would be extremely risky.”

“I might walk home,” she said, “but I could not leave the horse.”

“Let me think a minute,” said I. Then presently I asked, “Will this horse stand if he is hitched?”

“Oh yes,” she answered; “I always hitch him when I make calls.  There is a big strap under the seat which goes around his neck, and then through a ring in his bit.  He has to stand—­he can’t get away.”

“Very well, then,” said I; “I will tell you what I will do.  I will tie him to this tree.  I think he is quieter, and if you will stand by him and talk to him—­he knows you?”

“Oh yes,” she answered, “and I can feed him with grass.  But why do you want to tie him?  What are you going to do?”

As she spoke she brought me the tie strap, and I proceeded to fasten the horse to a tree.

“Now, then,” said I, “I must go and get the bear and take him away somewhere out of sight.  It will never do to leave him there.  Some other horse might be coming along.”

“You get the bear!” she said, surprised.

“Yes,” I answered; “he is my bear, and—­”

She stepped back, her eyes expanded and her lower jaw dropped. “Your bear!” she cried, and with that her glance seemed to run all over me as if she were trying to find some resemblance to a man who exhibited a bear.

“Yes,” I replied; “I left him there while I went to ask my way.  It was a dreadful thing to do, but I must leave him there no longer.  I will tell you all about it when I come back.”

I had decided upon a plan of action.  I ran down the road to the bear, took down some bars of the fence, and then, untying him, I led him over a field to a patch of woodland.  Orso shuffled along humbly as if it did not make any difference to him where he went, and when I reached the woods I entered it by an old cart-road, and soon struck off to one side among some heavy underbrush.  Finding a spot where it would be impossible for the beast to be seen from the road, I fastened him securely to a tree.  He looked after me regretfully, and I think I heard him whine, but I am not sure of that.  I hurried back to the road, replaced the bars, and very soon had joined the young lady.