“May I call her Janey?”

“Janey!  Was that the name of Mr. Carnegie’s little mare?”

“No; she was Miss Hoyden.  Janey was the name of my first friend at school.  She went away soon, and I have never heard of her since.  But I shall:  I often think of her.”

“You have a constant memory, Elizabeth—­not the best memory for your happiness.  What are you eating?  Only bread and butter.  Will you have no sardines, bacon, eggs, honey?  Nothing!  A very abstemious young lady!  You have done with school, and may wean yourself from school-fare.”

Breakfast over, Mrs. Betts brought her young lady’s leghorn hat and a pair of new Limerick gauntlet-gloves—­nice enough for Sunday in Bessie’s modest opinion, but as they were presented for common wear she put them on and said nothing.  Mr. Fairfax conducted his granddaughter to his private room, which had a lobby and porch into the garden, and twenty paces along the wall a door into the stable-yard.  The groom who had the nice little filly in charge to train was just bringing her out of her stable.

“There is your Janey, Elizabeth,” said her grandfather.

“Oh, what a darling!” cried Bessie in a voice that pleased him, as the pretty creature began to dance and prance and sidle and show off her restive caprices, making the groom’s mounting her for some minutes impracticable.

“It is only her play, miss—­she ain’t no vice at all,” the man said, pleading her excuses.  “She’ll be as dossil as dossil can be when I’ve give her a gallop.  But this is her of a morning—­so fresh there’s no holding her.”

Another groom had come to aid, and at length the first was seated firm in the saddle, with a flowing skirt to mimic the lady that Janey was to carry.  And with a good deal of manoeuvring they got safe out of the yard.

“You would like to follow and see?  Come, then,” said the squire, and led Bessie by a short cut across the gardens to the park.  Janey was flying like the wind over the level turf, but she was well under guidance, and when her rider brought her round to the spot where Mr. Fairfax and the young lady stood to watch, she quite bore out his encomium on her docility.  She allowed Bessie to stroke her neck, and even took from her hand an apple which the groom produced from a private store of encouragement and reward in his pocket.

“It will be well to give her a good breathing before Miss Fairfax mounts her, Ranby,” said his master, walking round her approvingly.  Then to Bessie he said, “Do you know enough of horses not to count rashness courage, Elizabeth?”

“I am ready to take your word or Ranby’s for what is venturesome,” was Bessie’s moderate reply.  “My father taught me to ride as soon as I could sit, so that I have no fear.  But I am out of practice, for I have never ridden since I went to Caen.”

“You must have a new habit:  you shall have a heavy one for the winter, and ride to the meet with me occasionally.  I suppose you have never done that?”