“If I cannot stop her,” he reflected, “I’ll desert the brute just before we get to the toll-gate.  I can’t think what possessed Twombly to let me have such a ridiculous animal!”

Mary showed no sign that she was conscious of anything unconventional or unlooked for in her conduct.

“Mary, my dear,” said Lynde at last, with dangerous calmness, “you would be all right, or, at least, your proceeding would not be quite so flagrant a breach of promise, if you were only aimed in the opposite direction.”

With this he gave a vigorous jerk at the left-hand rein, which caused the mare to wheel about and face Rivermouth.  She hesitated an instant, and then resumed backing.

“Now, Mary,” said the young man dryly, “I will let you have your head, so to speak, as long as you go the way I want you to.”

This manoeuvre on the side of Lynde proved that he possessed qualities which, if skilfully developed, would have assured him success in the higher regions of domestic diplomacy.  The ability to secure your own way and impress others with the idea that they are having their own way is rare among men; among women it is as common as eyebrows.

“I wonder how long she will keep this up,” mused Lynde, fixing his eye speculatively on Mary’s pull-back ears.  “If it is to be a permanent arrangement I shall have to reverse the saddle.  Certainly, the creature is a lusus naturae—­her head is on the wrong end!  Easy on the back,” he added, with a hollow laugh, recalling Deacon Twombly’s recommendation.  “I should say she was!  I never saw an easier.”

Presently Mary ceased her retrograde movement, righted herself of her own accord, and trotted off with as much submissiveness as could be demanded of her.  Lynde subsequently learned that this propensity to back was an unaccountable whim which seized Mary at odd intervals and lasted from five to fifteen minutes.  The peculiarity once understood not only ceased to be an annoyance to him, but became an agreeable break in the ride.  Whenever her mood approached, he turned the mare round and let her back to her soul’s content.  He also ascertained that the maximum of Mary’s speed was five miles an hour.

“I didn’t want a fast horse, anyway,” said Lynde philosophically.  “As I am not going anywhere in particular, I need be in no hurry to get there.”

The most delightful feature of Lynde’s plan was that it was not a plan.  He had simply ridden off into the rosy June weather, with no settled destination, no care for to-morrow, and as independent as a bird of the tourist’s ordinary requirements.  At the crupper of his saddle—­an old cavalry saddle that had seen service in long-forgotten training-days—­ was attached a cylindrical valise of cowhide, containing a change of linen, a few toilet articles, a vulcanized cloth cape for rainy days, and the first volume of The Earthly Paradise.  The two warlike holsters in front (in which Colonel Eliphalet Bangs used to carry a brace of flintlock pistols now reposing in the Historical Museum at Rivermouth) became the receptacle respectively of a slender flask of brandy and a Bologna sausage; for young Lynde had determined to sell his life dearly if by any chance of travel he came to close quarters with famine.