‘Oh, Mr. Harrington, don’t laugh at me,’ said Polly.

Evan assured her that he was seriously examining her bonnet.

’It ‘s the bonnet of a draggletail,’ said Polly, giving up her arms, and biting her under-lip for the lift.

With some display of strength, Evan got the lean creature up behind him, and Polly settled there, and squeezed him tightly with her arms, excusing the liberty she took.

They mounted the beacon, and rode along the ridge whence the West became visible, and a washed edge of red over Beckley Church spire and the woods of Beckley Court.

‘And what have you been doing to be punished?  What brought you here?’ said Evan.

‘Somebody drove me to Fallow field to see my poor sister Susan,’ returned Polly, half crying.

’Well, did he bring you here and leave you?

’No:  he wasn’t true to his appointment the moment I wanted to go back; and I, to pay him out, I determined I’d walk it where he shouldn’t overtake me, and on came the storm . . .  And my gown spoilt, and such a bonnet!’

‘Who was the somebody?’

‘He’s a Mr. Nicholas Frim, sir.’

‘Mr. Nicholas Frim will be very unhappy, I should think.’

‘Yes, that’s one comfort,’ said Polly ruefully, drying her eyes.

Closely surrounding a young man as a young woman must be when both are on the same horse, they, as a rule, talk confidentially together in a very short time.  His ‘Are you cold?’ when Polly shivered, and her ’Oh, no; not very,’ and a slight screwing of her body up to him, as she spoke, to assure him and herself of it, soon made them intimate.

‘I think Mr. Nicholas Frim mustn’t see us riding into Beckley,’ said Evan.

‘Oh, my gracious!  Ought I to get down, sir?’ Polly made no move, however.

‘Is he jealous?’

‘Only when I make him, he is.’

‘That’s very naughty of you.’

’Yes, I know it is—­all the Wheedles are.  Mother says, we never go right till we ‘ve once got in a pickle.’

‘You ought to go right from this hour,’ said Evan.

’It’s ‘dizenzy—­[??  D.W.]—­does it,’ said Polly.  ’And then we’re ashamed to show it.  My poor Susan went to stay with her aunt at Bodley, and then at our cousin’s at Hillford, and then she was off to Lymport to drown her poor self, I do believe, when you met her.  And all because we can’t bear to be seen when we ’re in any of our pickles.  I wish you wouldn’t look at me, Mr. Harrington.’

‘You look very pretty.’

’It ‘s quite impossible I can now,’ said Polly, with a wretched effort to spread open her collar.  ’I can see myself a fright, like my Miss Rose did, making a face in the looking-glass when I was undressing her last night.  But, do you know, I would much rather Nicholas saw us than somebody!

‘Who’s that?’

‘Miss Bonner.  She’d never forgive me.’

‘Is she so strict?’