She laughed with a pretty acknowledgment of the raillery, but a first did not answer.  It was a great temptation!  The breakfast had left her excited and restless, and to get away from it all—­to have a canter in the fresh wind!  Then, she hated the very name of the grey cob!—­She looked over to Mr. Falkirk.  He was looking at her earnestly, but he did not speak.

‘Shall I do that, sir?’

‘If you go, you cannot do better,’ he said, in a tone which certainly signified a want of satisfaction at something; but that was not unprecedented in their discussions.

’But my habit!—­O well, I can manage that.  Then will you be ready very soon, Mr. Rollo?’

Dane was ready, there was no doubt of that; but Mr. Falkirk was on the verandah also, when the little mistress of Chickaree come forth to be mounted; and for the occasion the red squirrel went back to the old grave punctilio of manner he could assume when he pleased.

That was all the surrounding pairs of eyes could see; a grave deference, a skilful care in performance of his duties as Wych Hazel’s squire.  But to her, out of ken of all but herself, there was an expression of somewhat else; in every touch and movement and look, an indescribable something, which even to her inexperience said:  ’Every bit of your little person, and everything that concerns it, is precious to me.’  Not one man in many could have so shewn it to her, and hidden it from the bystanders.  It was a bit of cool generalship.  Then he threw himself on his own horse, like the red squirrel he was, and they moved off slowly together.

Well, she was not a vain girl, having quite too much of a tide in her fancies, notions and purposes to be stopping to think of herself all the while.  So, though Rollo’s manner did make her shy, it stirred up no self-consciousness.  For understanding may sleep, while instincts are awake.  It was very pleasant to be liked, and if she wondered a little why he should like her—­for Miss Kennedy was certainly not blind to some of her own wayward imperfections—­still, perhaps the wonder made it all the pleasanter.  She was not in the least inclined to take people’s attentions in any but the simplest way (if only they were not flung at her by the basketful); and in short had no loose tinder, as yet, lying round to catch fire.  Perhaps that says the whole.  So she was about as grave and as gay, as timid and as bold, by turns, as if she had been seven years old.

‘I promised you a canter,’ said her companion, taking hold of her bridle to draw the grey aside from a bad place in the road.  ’Next time you shall have a gallop—­so soon as I can find what will do for you.  Never mind for to-day.’

’You think this most respectable horse could so far forget himself as to canter?’

‘Try.’

And away they went, with that elastic, flying spring through the air which bids spirits bound as well, and leaves care nowhere.  For the old grey had paces, if his jollity was somewhat abated; and Vixen went provokingly, minding her business like one who thought she had better.  Nevertheless it was a good canter.