“Libbie!  For goodness’ sake don’t sit down in that chair.  That package has got the loveliest orange silk over-blouse in it.  Wait till you see it, Bobby.”

She fairly dragged the plump girl, Libbie, away from the proximity of the chair in question and then began to scramble into her riding dress.  The clatter of hoofs was audible on the drive as she fixed the plain gold pin in her smart stock.

“Of course,” Betty said with a sigh, “one can’t wear a locket, with or without a chain, when one is riding.  That dear locket Uncle Dick gave me!  I suppose it is safe enough in my bag.  Well, I’m ready.”

They all ran down to the veranda to see the mounts.  Betty’s was a beautiful gray horse named Jim that she had seen before in the Fairfields stables.

“He’s sort of hard-bitted, Miss,” said the smiling negro who held the bridle and that of Bobby’s own pony, a beautiful bay.  “But he ain’t got a bad trick and is as kind as a lamb, Miss.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of him,” declared Betty.  “You ought to see my Clover.  All right, Uncle Dick, I’m up!”

They were all mounted and cantering down the drive in a very few minutes.  Even plump little Libbie sat her steed well, for she had often ridden over her own Vermont hills.

“I don’t know where we’re going, but I’m on my way!” cried Betty, who was delighted to be once more in the saddle.

“We’re going right across country to Bolter’s stock farm,” Louise told her.  “Here’s where we turn off.  There will be some fences.  Can you jump a fence, Betty?”

“I can go anywhere this gray horse goes,” declared Betty proudly.

But Bob rode up beside her before they came to the first jump.  “Look out for the icy places, Betsey,” he warned her.  “None of these horses are sharpened.  They never have ice enough down here in Virginia to worry about, so they say.”

Which was true enough on ordinary occasions.  But the frost the night before had been a hard one and the air was still tingling with it.  In the shady places the pools remained skimmed over.  A gallop over the fields and through the woodland paths put both the horses and riders in a glow of excitement.

Perhaps Betty was a little careless—­at least too confident.  Her gray got the lead and sped away across some rough ground which bordered a ravine.  Bob shouted again for her to be careful, and Betty turned and waved her hand reassuringly to him.

It was just then that Jim slipped on the edge of the bank.  Both of his front feet slid on an icy patch and he almost came to his knees.  Betty saved herself from going over his head by a skillful lunge backward, pulling sharply on the reins.

But the horse did not so easily regain his foot-hold.  The edge of the bank crumbled.  Betty did not utter a sound, but the girls behind her screamed in unison.

“Stop!  Wait!  She’ll be killed!”

Betty knew that Bob was coming at a thundering pace on his brown mount; but the gray horse was on its haunches, sliding down the slope of the ravine, snorting as it went.  Betty could not stop her horse, but she clung manfully to the reins and sat back in her saddle as though glued to it.