CHAPTER XI.

SOMETHING OLD AND QUIET.

The horses were mustered in the homestead yard--twenty or thirty, ranging from Conqueror, towering over the mob, to the children's ponies--Merle's fiery little black, Bobby's quieter bay, and a diminutive Sheltie of ten hands, whose mission in life at present was to draw a tiny carriage sacred to the twinses. It was not yet seven o'clock, and the sun was slowly mounting into a sky of cloudless blue. Mr. Warner stood by the rail, looking over the restless horses. He glanced round, hearing a step.

"Hullo, my daughter!" he said cheerfully. "Coming out with the crowd?"

"Oh, yes, I s'pose so," Merle answered. "Where are we going, Daddy?"

"Oh, just for a ride round, to show the Lesters something of the place," he said. "We might send the cart out to meet us at Gaffney's Lagoon, and have lunch there--it's as good a place as any, isn't it?"

"Yes, I think so," Merle answered. "Will you ride Conqueror, daddy?"

"No, I'll give Bayard a turn. He's pretty fresh, and needs riding. So does Agility, by the way. I think I'll let young Downes go to give the horse exercise; he bucked with one of the black boys on Monday, but Downes can handle him. You'll ride Olaf, of course, and we'll put Mr. Lester on the horse he had yesterday--he liked him; and Mrs. Lester on Delight. What shall we give Dick?"

Merle hesitated.

"Well, he said yesterday he couldn't ride much," she said.

Mr. Warner looked surprised.

"Really?" he said. "I should have thought he'd be pretty useful on a horse--he must have had plenty of riding. Are you sure?"

"Well, I asked him, and he said, 'A little,' and afterwards he was saying he didn't feel anxious if he was on anything old and quiet." Merle's eyes did not meet her father's. She affected to be very interested in a black mare near her.

"Oh, if that's the case, he'd better have something of that kind," said her father, looking disappointed. "I wouldn't have thought he was like that. Let's see--he'd better have old Sergeant; he won't play any tricks with him, unless indeed he goes to sleep." He whistled to a man in the stable yard, who came across to them, and gave him the orders for O'Mara. "Nine o'clock sharp, mind," the squatter finished. "Come on, Merle. I want to go round the new Ayrshires before breakfast."

Merle trotted off beside her father, completely happy for the first time since they had left the station on their eastern trip. This was like old times, when he had always wanted her for his mate; before other places and other people--especially Dick Lester--had come between him and his well-worn routine. He talked away to her cheerily, pointing out the various beauties of the new Ayrshire heifers, and discussing station matters generally, just as he had been always wont to do. Merle's face lost its scowl, and became almost merry. As they turned back to breakfast she felt even charitable to Dick. After all, he would soon be gone back to Victoria, and then she and her father would settle down to the good old ways again.

It did not worry her at all that she had arranged a dull ride for Dick. Sergeant did not shine as a hack, she knew; he had been "general utility" horse so long, ridden by all sorts and conditions of people, black and white, that his paces had become curiously jumbled, and his one ardent desire was to pause and sleep. In her own heart Merle knew quite well that Dick could ride; he had talked to her of Tinker, his own beloved pony, and no one who had seen him handling the maddened bay mare the day before could have imagined that his preference was really for "something old and quiet." Partly she meant to "pay him out" for openly preferring O'Mara's company to hers; partly she wanted to keep him from mounting any further in her father's regard. "Daddy's quite silly enough about him as it is," was her mental comment. "He won't think half as much about him if he thinks he can't ride." Therefore she went cheerfully to breakfast, certain that Dick was not likely to shine on a horse on which Merle herself would have remarked that she would not be seen dead at a pig fair.

O'Mara meanwhile was puzzled. Certain questions put to Dick the day before had satisfied him that the boy could ride! He whistled in astonishment when the message came to him that Dick's mount was to be the ancient Sergeant. He rubbed the horse down himself, and saddled him, still pondering the matter. There was something he did not understand.

The horses stood ready saddled, tied to a fence in the shade of a row of grevillea trees, when Dick came out after breakfast. He was aching to be in the saddle; the milkman's pony had been his one means of a ride during the long winter term at school, and he longed to feel the creak of the leather and the movement of a good horse under him again. Meeting a stable-boy, he stopped him.

"Do you know which I'm to ride?"

The boy jerked his head towards the horses.

"Bay 'orse there, under the tree," he said casually; and added with a grin, "Look out 'e don't sling yer orf, mind."

"Right-oh," said Dick, grinning. He walked towards the horses; and it never occurred to him that the "bay 'orse under the tree" meant old Sergeant. That ornament to his species, with drooping head and slumbrous eye, was probably waiting to go on a station errand; he looked like it. But the boy's description equally applied to Agility, and Dick went over to him without hesitation.

The stirrups were too long, and he shortened them while Agility tried to walk round himself in a way that made it sufficiently clear that he was very fresh. He was a light bay, half thorough-bred; not more than fifteen hands in height and very compact. At the moment he was like a restless mass of steel springs enclosed in a satin skin. Dick slipped off his halter and talked to him for a moment, patting his neck. Then he put the reins gently over his head and was in the saddle with a movement so quick that the horse had not time to realise it.

It was just at that moment that Mr. Warner and Mr. Lester, with Merle beside them, came strolling across from the house. The big man was in the midst of a sentence when his eye fell on the line of horses, and he broke off with a startled exclamation.

"Good God--is O'Mara mad! That horse will throw the boy!"

"Where?--throw Dick?" Mr. Lester gave a little laugh. "Oh, I don't think so."

Mr. Warner did not hear him. He broke into a run, calling agitatedly:

"Steady, Dick--hold him! Let me get to his head!"

The words were lost on Dick. Agility, feeling the light weight on his back, was dancing sideways, giving playful little kicks and trying to get his head down. Dick's hands gave to the strain on the bit to a certain point; then they were steel, and the horse knew it. He reared suddenly, striking out with his forefeet, so nearly upright that even Mr. Lester, who had no nerves where his son's horsemanship was concerned, caught his breath. Agility came down, with all his hoofs firmly planted; stood motionless for a moment, and then began to buck.

Dick sat him lightly, giving to the furious plunges just enough to save himself from jar. He knew quite well how the horse felt--he felt rather like it himself, on this beautiful spring morning, when the very air was like a draught of wine. It was not the first time he had sat on a buck; it would not be the last, if Dick knew anything about it. So he sat quietly, his hands well down and his shoulders back. Mr. Warner broke into a sudden shout of laughter.

"Oh, Merle, you duffer! So you thought he couldn't ride!"

"Who? Dick?" asked Mr. Lester, in a voice of utter amazement.

Merle said nothing. She stood with her black brows drawn together, watching the slight, erect figure on the plunging bay. Agility had nearly bucked himself out; it was evident to him that Dick did not mean to leave the saddle, so he came gradually to a standstill, while the boy patted his neck and spoke to him soothingly. Dick glanced over and caught Mr. Warner's eye.

"May I take him round the paddock? He's just spoiling for a gallop!"

"Anywhere you like," said Mr. Warner, resignedly, still laughing.

Dick gave Agility his head, and the horse went off with a flying bound. The gentle slope of the hill ended in a long stretch of flat--good galloping ground, firm and sound, with the spring grass like a carpet underfoot. They swept round it at a hard gallop, keeping near the fence. Then a fallen tree tempted Dick, and he put the bay at it. Agility asked for nothing better. His ears pricked daintily; he shortened his stride, and flew the log like a bird. O'Mara, watching from the stable yard, gave a hoarse cackle of laughter.

"Is it that one you'd be putting on old Sergeant, now?" he demanded. "Yerra, ye might do worse than take him on as horsebreaker!"

"I might, indeed," laughed Mr. Warner. "Oh, Merle, aren't you easily taken in!"

But Merle had disappeared. Endurance, for her, ended when Dick put Agility at the big log; she turned and scurried indoors, her heart hot with shame and disgust. She had been made to look and feel a fool--and it was Dick Lester's fault! Dick, who was always in her way. She hid her burning face in her room, and did not reappear until all the party had mounted, and her father was shouting for her with angry impatience. It was the final touch that she passed old Sergeant, hastily let go, and slumberously cropping the grass; while Mr. Downes, on a fresh horse, capered airily in the distance beside Agility, to whose back Dick was still glued.

Nobody bothered about Merle. Bobby was as close as he could get to Dick, while Mr. Warner and Mr. Lester were riding beside Mrs. Lester. There was nothing for Merle to do but fall in behind them, where she had the doubtful pleasure of hearing her father tell the story of the morning, and of his careful plans for Dick. It was Mrs. Lester who looked round after a time and took pity on the unhappy face, checking her mare that she might ride beside her. The charm of her voice chased away some of Merle's ill-humour; but the sting of the morning remained.

They passed a number of young blacks from the tribe, coming in after a night's hunting, laden with game--wallaby, 'possum, bandicoot and gerboa, all speared or killed with the throwing stick. One man had got three or four bright-coloured parrots with his boomerang, as well as a beautiful black cockatoo. Mr. Warner stopped to talk to them, complimenting them on their good luck, and one opened a skin bag and showed him other prizes in the shape of a fat, stumpy-tailed lizard, a young iguana, and--greatest delicacy of all--half a dozen of the big tree grubs that the black will go far out of his way to secure.

"People say they're quite good--but I don't feel like experimenting on them," remarked Mrs. Lester, wrinkling her pretty nose as she looked at the plump insects.

"I've been very glad to eat them when I ran short of tucker in the bush," Mr. Warner said. "They're really good, too--if you grill them they're very like chicken. But I'll admit that their appearance is against them."

The blacks were in a hurry to get back to camp; it was long since they had brought with them such promise of solid feasting. They said good-bye, and set off with their long, noiseless stride--ball of the foot down first and then the heel, as is the way of natives nearly all the world over.

"Those fellows could go through the bush, with dead leaves and bark and dry sticks lying all over the place, and you'd never hear them," Mr. Warner said. "I've watched 'em sometimes stalking musk duck in the lagoons. They tie a bundle of rushes over their heads and faces, and wade neck-deep in the water, zig-zagging here and there, perhaps taking half an hour to cover fifty yards. Sometimes they get near enough to grab the ducks under water. Sometimes they have to straighten up in a hurry and get them with the throwing stick. But it's mighty seldom they fail to get them."

"Do they supply you with game?" Mr. Lester asked.

"Yes, to a great extent. We can nearly always depend on them for certain things--fish, wild geese, and duck and teal and quail. Of course there are a good many of their delicacies that we don't touch--and we had some difficulty in persuading them that we really prefer game fresh! Payment is in goods or baccy, and they soon become pretty shrewd at driving a bargain. We've had to adopt a regular tariff for ordinary things."

"They are good-looking fellows, as aborigines go," remarked Mr. Lester.

"Yes, far before the eastern tribes. They're taller and stronger, and their standard of intelligence is higher. Many of the piccaninnies are quite pretty little chaps--you saw them yesterday. Of course they all become abominably ugly as they grow old. Their features spread and thicken until they are positively repulsive. I don't believe there's any human being less attractive than an ancient Australian black gin!"

Ahead, Dick and young Downes were galloping, picking out a natural steeplechase course over fallen tree trunks, while Bobby followed as best he could on his pony, delighted when he could make him hop over smaller obstacles. Merle looked at them enviously. She knew her pony, Olaf, could jump anything in the paddock, and yet she was out of it, condemned by her own ill-temper to ride sedately with the elders. Her father glanced down at her curiously.

"What's up, Merle? Why don't you join in?"

"Don't want to, thanks," Merle muttered.

"Well, you are turning into an old woman," he said contemptuously.

Merle flushed and said nothing.

"I believe I'm not too old to jump," said Mrs. Lester. "Those logs are very tempting. Can Delight manage them, Mr. Warner?"

"She'll jump whatever you ask her to," he said. "If you'd really like a few jumps, Mrs. Lester, we'll give you a lead."

"Then come on, Merle, and we'll show them we're not the inferior sex," laughed Mrs. Lester. "I can't let Dick get superior!"

The two big horses thundered off ahead, and close behind them came Olaf and Delight, each capering with joy at the sudden gallop. In and out they went among the trees, finding natural jumps everywhere and an occasional clear space where they could put on speed. The noise of the hoofs came to Dick and the other boys as they circled round the great paddock, so wide that the fences were out of sight. Dick shouted with joy, and bore across until he was riding abreast of his mother, yelling encouragement at each big log. He was more than ever sure that nobody had ever had a mother like her!

Merle shot ahead of them suddenly, and set to work to overhaul her father and Mr. Lester. Her pony was a beautiful black, full of fire and breeding; he jumped like a deer, and took his logs almost at racing pace. Merle sat him as though she were part of him--leaning forward a little at each leap, and lifting him at the log with little inarticulate words of encouragement. Gradually he lessened the distance between him and the great horses in front, making up by quickness in jumping more than the handicap of his shorter stride. He forged ahead at last, so stealthily that they did not realise they were being left behind, and then Merle sat down to ride him in earnest, and soon was far in the lead.

Agility put an end to the steeplechase by bolting. His feelings became too much for him altogether, and he suddenly swerved from a log, and dashed through the timber at such a pace that Dick was only saved from overhanging boughs by lying flat on his neck--in which position he could do little to check him. The others pulled up, in some anxiety, to watch him. He emerged from the trees safely, and shot across the tussocky plain beyond, where Dick at length got him in hand, and he returned more sedately, except for an occasional irrepressible caper. On the way they overtook Merle, walking Olaf back to the other horses.

"My word, that pony's a beauty!" said Dick, looking at Olaf with open respect. "And I say, you can ride!"

The black dog that had sat so long on Merle's shoulders was gone for the moment--routed by the joy of the gallop. She gave the boy something like a smile.

"He's a darling, isn't he?" she said, patting Olaf's arching neck. "He can beat any horse on the place at jumping--you ask dad if he can't."

"Well, I guess I've seen for myself this morning," Dick answered. "This chap's not too bad, either, is he? He can't beat your pony, though." He grinned. "Didn't we have a ripping go! I'm jolly glad I wasn't on old Sergeant."

The brightness suddenly faded from Merle's face. Her eyes dropped before Dick's merry ones. To her own amazement, a lump came in her throat.

"I say, what's up?" blurted Dick.

She managed to meet his eyes with a great effort.

"It was my fault," she said, speaking very low. "I mean, I worked to get you put on Sergeant. I told dad you couldn't ride."

"Well, I'm blessed!" said Dick, in utter astonishment--too amazed to be indignant. "But why?"

"I don't know." She flushed hotly. "Oh, because I'm a pig, I suppose. I'm sorry."

It would have taken more than Dick's easy-going nature could assume to be stern.

"Well, it doesn't matter, anyhow," he said. "You only made a mistake."

"No. I didn't make a mistake," Merle said shrilly. "I knew you could ride all right. I--I told you I was a pig!" A large tear rolled down her cheek, to her intense shame. She felt for a handkerchief, and, finding none, rubbed her cheek on Olaf's mane.

Dick pondered the situation gravely.

"I guess, if you're a pig, it hurts yourself more than anyone else," he said at length. "I say, why don't you knock off being one and be pals? I'll help."

At the moment he forgot altogether that he had no real desire to be "pals" with her at all. But no boy could help being rather sorry for this small, incomprehensible person, with the miserable face. And there was no doubt she could ride!

Merle swallowed twice before she could command her voice. Then she merely managed to mumble "All right"--and immediately found her hand shaken in a manly fashion.

"Well, I guess we'd better canter," said Dick, thankfully putting an end to the situation. "Those other people are getting too far ahead." They cemented their bargain in the way most acceptable to both of them, by a quick sprint across the plain, to join the main body of the expedition.

The paddocks immediately surrounding the homestead were comparatively clear, except for belts of timber left standing for shelter for the cattle. The soil was good, and long ago, when the ground had been cleared and burnt off, English grasses had been sown, making a firm sward. But as the riders went further, the country gradually assumed more and more of a bush aspect, and the good soil changed. They passed over stony ridges, with red rock outcropping from the short, sparse grass and ironstone rubble that necessitated careful riding. The trees grew smaller in character; there were patches of mulga, tall whip-trees with slender tops curving beneath their load of little green flowers like berries; banksias covered with honey-laden blossoms and all a-flutter with the wings of honey-eaters, whose long, curved beaks plunged deep into the sticky flowers. Everywhere there were flowers. They passed swampy patches, full of the fragrance of wild boronia, and murmurous with the hum of innumerable wild bees; near at hand, ti-tree, with flowers of many colours--some scarlet, some pink, and some of tender green and white. There were curious plants with leaves apparently made of flannel, and others bearing blossoms like balls of red and blue down. Later, Mr. Warner said, the plains would blaze with a dozen kinds of everlastings, the crimson seeds of the native hop would vie with the trailing black and scarlet of Sturt's desert pea, and the cottonwool berries, with their white eye would be everywhere. Rose-coloured mesembryanthemums would trail a gorgeous blanket over the loose granite on the stony ridges--"beastly stuff it is to slip on when you're galloping after kangaroo," added the squatter, with a callous disregard of beauty.

There were birds in every belt of timber; parrakeets, their brilliant colours flashing in the sun as they went screaming overhead; parrots, more brilliant still; cockatoos, black and white, and a host of tiny feathered people, twittering among the blossoms that garlanded the bare earth. Now and then a curlew stepped daintily away, out of sight like a grey shadow, but sure to be ceaselessly watching the intruders from its hiding place. Wild turkeys passed overhead, in swift flight, or black swans, spread fan-like in the sky, the leader ahead, winging their way to some distant lagoon. They saw a group of emu out on a plain--the great birds made off at their approach, their heavy feet sounding almost like a horse's hoofs on the hard ground.

It was after midday when they came in sight of Gaffney's Lagoon, a broad stretch of water named after a stockman who had been attacked by blacks while camping near the shore.

"A good man, Gaffney," said Mr. Warner; "one of the best hands I ever had. He was looking for some lost cattle, and the blacks got round him quietly one night. Poor old Gaffney--he must have put up a good fight, for they didn't get him until he had used up all his ammunition. He had been in Canada, in the North-West Mounted Police, and he could shoot quicker than any man I ever saw."

"They killed him?" asked Dick, wide-eyed.

"Oh, yes, poor old chap. There were nearly twenty spears in him. But there were dead blacks all round him--he had a good escort to the next world. I don't think he'd missed a single shot."

"A pity to lose a man like that," said Mr. Lester.

"Yes, it was bad luck, though it was the sort of finish he had always hoped to get. I used to have great yarns with Gaffney, and the one end he didn't want was to die in his bed. That fellow Stevenson would have appealed to him, with his 'Under the wide and starry sky.' And he did good, even in his death, for his last fight gave the blacks such a wholesome dread of the white man's capabilities that they sheered off for a long time. That was fifteen years ago, and I don't think they ever came so close in again." Mr. Warner pointed ahead with his whip. "Do you see our camp fire, Mr. Lester?"

A trail of blue smoke was lazily rising under some trees near the head of the lagoon. Near it was a cart, with a couple of donkeys hobbled close by, and across the rough grass came a light buggy, drawn by a fine pair of browns.

"The missus is just on time," said Mr. Warner. "Let's get there to welcome her."

They put their horses to a canter, and arrived at the camp fire just before the buggy came up, Mrs. Warner driving herself, while the twinses, spotless in white, were with difficulty restrained by nanna, whose smile was like a streak of ivory across an ebony surface, as she clung to each wriggling small body.

"The sight of you has a most demoralising effect on them," said Mrs. Warner to her husband, laughing. "They have been quite good until they saw you, and since then nanna has her hands full. Be quiet, twinses, and sit still!" It was noticeable that nobody ever thought or spoke of the Warner babies either singly or by name; being inseparable both in companionship and wickedness, it was not necessary to allude to them as anything but "the twinses." Dick had an idea that they were boy and girl, but as they were always dressed alike, and resembled each other so closely that he was quite unable to tell one from the other, even that was uncertain.

Mr. Warner lifted his restless infants out of the buggy, holding them tightly until nanna was on the ground, and able to resume at least partial control.

"There--keep away from the horses' heels," he said. "Go over and see what old Harry is cooking." The twinses fled tumultuously.

"Harry's an old soldier," Mr. Warner told Mrs. Lester, "and, like most old soldiers, the handiest man on the place. He has a wooden leg, which was interfering very badly with his career as a swagman, when I found him ten years ago; but it never affects his usefulness now. There's nothing he can't or won't tackle, but his particular accomplishment is camp cooking, so I sent him out to fix up lunch for us to-day."

They gave the old man full credit as a cook presently, when they ate the wild turkey, roasted in the ashes, in a jacket of clay, which he had prepared. There were potatoes, also roasted in their jackets, to be followed by flapjacks of surpassing lightness.

"Do you always have banquets like this when you come out on the run?" demanded Mr. Lester. "I'm accustomed to a packet of sandwiches and creek water!"

"My lunches vary," said Mr. Warner, laughing. "They range from turkey, like to-day--but you'll admit this is a special occasion---to yams and grubs, and I've been more thankful for the yams than for the turkey! You see, you're exceedingly hungry before you take to black fellows' tucker, and when you're really hungry you're glad to get anything."

After lunch they went to compliment old Harry, a courtesy he received unmoved, standing stiffly to attention, but inwardly very proud. Then they explored the shores of the lagoon, when the twinses created a diversion by falling into a pool, in an effort to catch fish which were not there. Mrs. Lester marvelled at the calmness with which Mrs. Warner received her soaked offsprings from the rescuers.

"You might as well wash the mud off them while they're wet, nanna," she told the black nurse, who was agitatedly proclaiming her opinion that "that two-pfeller Mas' Twinses bad babies."

"But, good gracious! how will you manage?" ejaculated Mrs. Lester. "They'll catch their deaths of cold! You must be five miles from home."

Mrs. Warner had risen leisurely.

"Oh, but we know the twinses," she said, laughing. "Their amazing capacity for getting into trouble developed before they could crawl; we never come out without a complete change of clothing for each. If there is fire, or water, or mud--preferably mud--the twinses will get into it. I'll go over to the buggy and help nanna."

"Let me come, too," said Mrs. Lester, jumping up.

That refitting the twinses was no new thing was amply demonstrated by their mother. A clump of bushes, reinforced by the buggy rug as an additional windbreak, formed a dressing-room; from under the seat of the buggy appeared a flat basket with fresh raiment. Nanna appeared presently with her charges, and they were stripped and rubbed down--creating a diversion by contriving to elude even the vigilance of their mother, and, all unclad, making a dash for liberty. The mothers pursued the gleaming little white bodies and brought them back, wriggling and protesting, to be clothed anew.

"You can't have many dull moments," said Mrs. Lester, hugging a twin.

"I haven't," said Mrs. Warner, dryly. "But then, I never had before they came, so really it doesn't matter much. When you have fifteen or twenty grown-up black babies under you, a couple of small white ones really don't signify!"

The twinses, restored to dry clothes, proved unexpectedly docile, and consented to be taken by nanna to visit an enormous anthill, towering in the distance, a column of dried mud. The elders explored the lagoon and gathered wild flowers, until there seemed some doubt as to whether there would be any room in the buggy for its passengers. Old Harry presently produced tea, with old-time damper, perfectly baked. They gathered near the camp fire again, and back across the paddock, scenting the banquet, came nanna and the twinses.

Merle came up to Dick just as they were preparing to go home.

"I say," she said, speaking with an effort, "you can ride Olaf home if you like."

"Thanks awfully," Dick returned in astonishment. "But I'm all right on Agility--and I know you like Olaf better than anything."

She hesitated, flushing.

"I'd like you to try him." Suddenly it came to Dick that it would hurt her to be refused.

"All right, it's jolly good of you," he said awkwardly. "Come on, and I'll change the saddles."

Merle helped at that, slipping her saddle off her own pony, and bestowing upon him a surreptitious little pat. No one but herself ever rode him; she knew every inch of him, even, she herself believed, to his thoughts. Nothing would have made Merle agree that horses did not think. She wondered, rather miserably now, what his views were on being handed over to a stranger.

"I've got to," she whispered to him, "for being a pig!"

Dick did not understand anything of this; boy-like, he rather fancied that Merle was offering him her pony to show off his perfections. It would have interested him more to ride Agility; but, being as good-natured as he was dense in these fine matters, he got up on Olaf good temperedly, and had to admit that he was a far more finished hack than his previous mount. Merle looked pleased at his praise.

"He is lovely, isn't he?" she asked. "Daddy bought him at the Perth show; he's won lots of prizes. He and I are awful good mates."

"I'm sure you are," Dick said. "Jolly good of you to let me ride him."

Across the grass Mr. Warner had suddenly gaped in astonishment.

"Well, I'm blessed!" he ejaculated to his wife. "I believe Merle is repenting in style; she's actually put Dick on Olaf. That's in amends for the ride he might have had on old Sergeant, I suppose!"

"Making amends isn't much in Merle's line," said Merle's mother.

"No, so I suppose we should be thankful for any sign of grace. At least, they seem happy enough now--look at them!"

Two small figures on galloping horses dipped down into a grassy hollow, flashed up again on the further side, made for a big log ahead, flew it together, and fled on again across the plain at full speed.

"That's all right," said Mrs. Warner, comfortably. "They can't possibly be bad friends now."

"No. But isn't it characteristic of Merle that although even the fact that he'd saved Bobby's life didn't make her treat him decently, she's reduced to penitence and friendliness by nearly giving him a ride on a bad horse!"