“But—­” Hilary turned to Pauline.

“Uncle Paul sent her,” Pauline explained.  “She came last Saturday afternoon.  One of the men from Uncle Paul’s place in the country brought her.  She was born and bred at River Lawn—­that’s Uncle Paul’s place—­he says.”

Hilary stroked the glossy neck gently, if Pauline had said the Sultan of Turkey, instead of Uncle Paul, she could hardly have been more surprised.  “Uncle Paul—­sent her to you!” she said slowly.

“To us.”

“Bless me, that isn’t all he sent,” Patience exclaimed.  It seemed to Patience that they never would get to the end of their story.  “You just come look at this, Hilary Shaw!” she ran on through the opening connecting carriage-house with stable.

“Oh!” Hilary cried, following with Pauline.

Beside the minister’s shabby old gig, stood the smartest of smart traps, and hanging on the wall behind it, a pretty russet harness, with silver mountings.

Hilary sat down on an old saw horse; she felt again as though she must be dreaming.

“There isn’t another such cute rig in town, Jim says so,” Patience said.  Jim was the stable boy.  “It beats Bell Ward’s all to pieces.”

“But why—­I mean, how did Uncle Paul ever come to send it to us?” Hilary said.  Of course one had always known that there was—­somewhere—­a person named Uncle Paul; but he had appeared about as remote and indefinite a being as—­that same Sultan of Turkey, for instance.

“After all, why shouldn’t he?” Pauline answered.

“But I don’t believe he would’ve if Paul had not written to him that time,” Patience added.  “Maybe next time I tell you anything, you’ll believe me, Hilary Shaw.”

But Hilary was staring at Pauline.  “You didn’t write to Uncle Paul?”

“I’m afraid I did.”

“Was—­was that the letter—­you remember, that afternoon?”

“I rather think I do remember.”

“Paul, how did you ever dare?”

“I was in the mood to dare anything that day.”

“And did he answer; but of course he did.”

“Yes—­he answered.  Though not right away.”

“Was it a nice letter?  Did he mind your having written?  Paul, you didn’t ask him to send you—­these,” Hilary waved her hand rather vaguely.

“Hardly—­he did that all on his own.  It wasn’t a bad sort of letter, I’ll tell you about it by and by.  We can go to the manor in style now, can’t we—­even if father can’t spare Fanny.  Bedelia’s perfectly gentle, I’ve driven her a little ways once or twice, to make sure.  Father insisted on going with me.  We created quite a sensation down street, I assure you.”

“And Mrs. Dane said,” Patience cut in, “that in her young days, clergymen didn’t go kiting ’bout the country in such high-fangled rigs.”

“Never mind what Mrs. Dane said, or didn’t say,” Pauline told her.

“Miranda says, what Mrs. Dane hasn’t got to say on any subject, wouldn’t make you tired listening to it.”