‘YOU ride, of course,’ Captain Standish said to Bella, upon one of her Thursday afternoons, in the middle of September. Bella blushed. She had never mounted a horse in her life. ‘I am very fond of riding,’ she said. ‘Have you ever ridden to hounds?’ ‘Do you mean hunted?’ she asked, naively. ‘Oh no, never.’ ‘Then you must begin this winter. I’ll show you the way, and take care of you.’ ‘I don’t think Mr. Piper would let me hunt,’ said Bella, dubiously. ‘I’ve heard him abuse hunting ladies; and as he never rides himself----’ ‘What has that to do with it?’ asked the captain, contemptuously. Captain Standish had long cast off all semblance of respect in his manner of speaking about Mr. Piper. Bella had taken that first desperate step in a woman’s downward course which a wife takes when she submits to hear her husband depreciated. ‘What has Mr. Piper’s taste to do with your pleasure? It would be very difficult to find a horse that would carry him, and I suppose he would ride in about as good form as a sack of coals. I should so like you to hunt with me, Isabel. You must make him buy you a good hunter.’ Captain Standish was the only person who had ever called her Isabel. He had chosen to call her thus, in their confidential moments, because every one else called her Bella. The moment in which he had spoken that name marked an epoch in her life. She could look back and remember. They were standing side by side under the big beech, she leaning on her bow, as she stopped to rest after a dozen shots, when he bent over her to take the arrow out of her hand, and praised her for her skill in archery. ‘I am so proud of your progress, Isabel.’ The name spoken tenderly, in a subdued voice, was as startling as a name whispered in a sleeper’s ear. ‘You must not call me by my Christian name, Captain Standish,’ she said, making her poor little protest, which he knew meant nothing. ‘Yes, I must. It is the only name pretty enough for you. I have a choking sensation every time I have to call you Mrs. Piper.’ So from that time forward he had called her Isabel, whenever they found themselves alone. ‘I don’t think Mr. Piper would let me ride, much less hunt,’ said Bella, thoughtfully. ‘Yes, he would. You know very well that you can twist him round your little finger.’ ‘I should dearly love hunting,’ she said, with a vague idea of skimming over ploughed fields, like a swallow, and flying over fences upon a horse whose only desire was to jump. ‘Get Piper to give his consent to your having a horse of your own, and let me choose one for you. I think you could trust my choice.’ ‘Indeed I could,’ sighed Bella.