Perhaps the gentleman wanted to give Wych Hazel’s thoughts a convenient diversion; perhaps he wished to get upon some safe common ground of interest and intercourse; perhaps he purposed to wear off any awkwardness that might embarrass their mutual good understanding; for he prefaced the ride with a series of instructions in horsemanship.  Mr. Falkirk had never let his ward practise leaping; Rollo knew that; but now, and with Mr. Falkirk looking on, he ordered up the two grooms with a bar, and gave Wych Hazel a lively time for half an hour.  A good solid riding lesson, too; and probably for that space of time at least attained all his ends.  But when he himself was mounted, and they had set off upon a quiet descent of the Chickaree hill, out of sight of Mr. Falkirk, all Wych Hazel’s shyness came back again; hiding itself behind reserve.  Rollo was in rather a gay mood.

‘It is good practice,’ he said.  ’Did you ever go through a cotton mill?’

‘Never.’

‘How would you like to go through one to-day?’

‘Why—­I do not know.  Very well, I daresay.’

So with this slight and doubtful encouragement, Rollo again took the way to Morton Hollow.  It was early October now; the maples and hickories showing red and yellow; the air a wonderful compound of spicy sweetness and strength; the heaven over their heads mottled with filmy stretches of cloud, which seemed to float in the high ether quite at rest.  A day for all sorts of things; good for exertion, and equally inviting one to be still and think.

‘How happens it you have let Jeannie stand still so long?’ Rollo asked presently.

‘I have not wanted to ride her,—­that is all.’

‘Would you like her better if she were your own?’ he said quite gently, though with a keen eye directed at Wych Hazel’s face.

‘No.  Not now.’  The ‘now’ slipped out by mistake, and might mean either of two things.  Rollo did not feel sure what it meant.

‘Did you ever notice,’ he said after a few minutes again, ’how different the clouds of this season are from those of other times of the year?  Look at those high bands of vapour lying along towards the south; they seem absolutely poised and still.  Clouds in spring and summer are drifting, or flying, or dispersing, or gathering:  earnest and purposeful; with work to do, and hurrying to do it.  Look at those yonder; they are at rest, as if all the work of the year were done up.  I think they say it is.’

The fair grave face was lifted, shewing uncertainty through the light veil; and she looked up intently at the sky, almost wondering to herself if there had been clouds in the spring and early summer.  She hardly seemed to remember them.

‘Is that what they say to you?’ she said dreamily.  ’They look to me as if they were just waiting,—­waiting to see where the wind will rise.’

’But the wind does not rise in October.  They will lie there, on the blessed blue, half the day.  It looks to me like the rest after work.’