“No, sir.”  He had gathered from the rector enough to make him understand the warning.

John went out with the idea that this business of learning to ride was somewhere in the future.  He was a little disturbed when the next day after breakfast his uncle said, “Come, John, the horses are in the training-ring.”

Mrs. Ann said, “James, if you are going to apply West Point riding-school methods to John, I protest.”

“Then protest, my dear,” he said.

“You will kill him,” she returned.

“My dear Ann, I am not going to kill him, I am going to teach him to live.  Come, John.  I am going to teach him to ride.”  Raising horses was one of the Squire’s amusements, and the training-course where young horses were broken usually got an hour of his busy day.

“May I come?” asked Leila.

“Please, not,” said John, anticipating disaster and desiring no amused spectators.

“In a week or so, yes, Leila,” said Penhallow, “not now.”

There were two stable-boys waiting and a pony long retired on grassy pension.  “Now,” said Penhallow, “put a foot on my knee and up you go.”

“But, there’s no saddle.”

“There are two.  The Lord of horses put one on the back of a horse and another under a man.  Up! sir.”  John got on.  “Grip him with your legs, hold on to the mane if you like, but not by the reins.”  The pony feeling no urgency to move stood still and nibbled the young grass.  A smart tap of the Squire’s whip started him, and John rolled off.

“Come, sir, get on.”  The boys from the stable grinned.  John set his teeth.  “Don’t stiffen yourself.  That’s better.”

He fell once again, and at the close of an hour his uncle said, “There that will do for to-day, and not so bad either.”

“I’d like to try it again, sir,” gasped John.

“You young humbug,” laughed Penhallow.  “Go and console your distracted aunt.  I am off to the mills.”

The ex-captain was merciless enough, and day after day John was so stiff that, as he confessed to Leila, a jointed doll was a trifle to his condition.  She laughed, “I went through it once, but one day it came.”

“What came, Leila?”

“Oh! the joy of the horse!”

“I shall never get to that.”  But he did, for the hard riding-master scolded, smiled, praised, and when at last John sat in the saddle the bareback lessons gave him a certain confidence.  The training went on day after day, under the rule of patient but relentless efficiency.  It was far into June when, having backed without serious misadventures two or three well-broken horses, Penhallow mounted him on Leila’s mare, Lucy, and set out to ride with him.

“Let us ride to the mills, John.”  The mare was perfectly gaited and easy.  They rode on, talking horses.