And then passed swiftly on.  Amused, startled, Wych Hazel also quickened her step; wondering to herself what sort of country she had fallen upon.  It was ridiculously like a fairy tale, this whole afternoon’s work.  The little barefooted guide, the sick woman with her ‘young goodness’ and ‘your ladyship,’ now this upstarting knight.  There were the roses in her hand, too, as much like the famed spray gathered by the merchant in ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ as mortal roses could be!  But the adventure was not over.  As she reached the stile she heard the same voice beside her again.  The stranger held her riding whip, which Wych Hazel had left behind her at the cottage; the little girl had met him, bringing it, he said.  And then he went on—­’It is impossible not to know that I am speaking to Miss Kennedy.  I am a stranger in the country, but my aunt, Mme. Lasalle, is well known to Mr. Falkirk.  Will Miss Kennedy allow me to assist her in remounting?’

It was gracefully said, with quietly modulated tones that belong only to a high grade of society, and the speaker had a handsome face and good presence.  Nevertheless, Wych Hazel had no mind to be ‘remounted’ by any one, and was very near saying as much; for in her, ‘temperament’ retarded the progress of conventionalism sadly.  As it was, she gave him a hesitating assent, and received his proffered assistance.  Then lifting his hat, he stood while she passed on.

It was time to ride, for the sky was dark with clouds, the air breathless, and sharp growls of thunder spoke in the distance, at every one of which Vixen made an uneasy motion of ears and head, to show what she would do when they came nearer.

’We must ride for it, Dingee,’—­Miss Hazel said to her dark attendant.

‘Reckon we’ll get it, too, Miss Hazel,’ was Dingee’s reply, and a heavy drop or two said ‘yes, it is coming.’  Wych Hazel laughed at him, cantering along on her black pony like a brown sprite, the rising wind making free with her hair and hat ribbands, the rose spray made fast for her buttonhole.  But as she dashed out of the woods upon a tract of open country, the distance before her was one sheet of grey rain and mist, and a near peal of thunder that almost took Vixen off her feet, showed what it would be to face such a storm, so mounted.  And now the raindrops began to patter near at hand.

But where to go?  She had passed no place of refuge in the woodland, and before her the storm hid every thing from sight.  So, after a second’s thought, Wych Hazel turned and flew down a side road a half a mile to the very door of a low stone house, the first she had seen, sprang off her frightened pony, and darted into the open hall door, leaving Dingee to find shelter for himself and his charge.  Then she began to wonder where she was, and what the people would say to her; at first she had been only glad to get off Vixen’s back, the pony had jumped and reared at such a rate for the last five minutes.