"I hear you have a very devoted admirer in the exciseman," Hieronymus said slyly. "How do you know that?" Joan said sharply. "Oh," he answered, "I was told." But he saw that his volcanic little companion was not too pleased; and so he began talking about John Richard Green. He told her about the man himself, his work, his suffering, his personality. He told her how the young men at Oxford were advised to travel on the Continent to expand their minds, and if they could not afford this advantage after their university career, then they were to read _John Richard Green_. He told her, too, of his grave at Mentone, with the simple words, "He died learning." Thus he would talk to her, taking her always into a new world of interest. Then she was in an enchanted kingdom, and he was the magician. It was a world in which agriculture and dairy-farming and all the other wearinesses of her everyday life had no part. Some people might think it was but a poor enchanted realm which he conjured up for her pleasure. But enchantment, like every other emotion, is but relative after all. Some little fragment of intellectuality had been Joan’s idea of enchantment. And now it had come to her in a way altogether unexpected, and in a measure beyond all her calculations. It had come to her, bringing with it something else. She seemed in a dream during all that time; yes, she was slipping further away from her own people, and further away from the exciseman. She had never been very near to him, but lately the distance had become doubled. When she chanced to meet him her manner was more than ordinarily cold. If he had chosen to plead for himself, he might well have asked what he had done to her that he should deserve to be treated with such bare unfriendliness. One day he met her. She was riding the great white horse, and David rode along beside her. She chatted with him now and again, but there were long pauses of silence between them. "Father has made up his mind to sell old Nance," she said suddenly, as she stroked the old mare’s head. "This is my last ride on her." "I am sorry," said David kindly. "She’s an old friend, isn’t she?" "I suppose it is ridiculous to care so much," Joan said; "but you know we’ve had her such a time. And I used to hang round her neck, and she would lift me up and swing me." "I remember," said David eagerly. "I’ve often watched you. I was always afraid you would have a bad fall." "You ran up and caught me once," Joan said, "And I was so angry; for it wasn’t likely that old Nance would have let me fall." "But how could I be sure that the little arms were strong enough to cling firmly to old Nance’s neck?" David said. "So I couldn’t help being anxious." "Do you remember when I was lost in that mist," Joan said, "and you came and found me, and carried me home? I was so angry that you would not let me walk." "You have often been angry with me," David said quietly.