This was as the cobble stones of the little place rattled to the beating of horses' hoofs, while a bright-looking little equestrian party passed along the main street; Cynthia mounted on a favourite mare belonging to Lord Artingale, one which she was always pleading to ride, and one whereon her slave loved to see her, though he always sent her over to the rectory in fear and trembling, ordering the groom who took her to give her a good gallop on the way to tame her down. Not that there was the slightest disposition to vice in the beautiful little creature, she was only spirited, or, as the people in his lordship's stable said, "a bit larky," and when Cynthia was mounted there was plenty of excuse for the young man's pride. "I shall never have patience to ride an old plodding, humble-stumble horse again, Harry," the little maiden used to say. "It's like sitting on air; and she is such a dear, and it's a shame to put two such great bits in her mouth." "It is only so that you might check her easily, Cynthy," said Artingale, anxiously. "You need not mind; with such a hand as yours at the rein they don't hurt her mouth." "But I'm sure they do, Harry," cried Cynthia; "and look how she champs them up, and what a foam she makes, and when she snorts and throws up her head it flies over my new riding-habit." "Never mind, my beautiful little darling," he whispered; "you shall have a new riding-habit every week if you like, only you must have the big curb for Mad Sal. Oh, I'd give something if Magnus could reproduce you now with one instantaneous touch of his brush, and--" "Hush! you silly boy," she whispered reprovingly, as the mare ambled on. "This is not the time and place to talk such nonsense." Nonsense or no, it produced a very satisfactory glow in the little maiden's heart--a glow which shone in her soft cheeks, and made her eyes flash as they rode on. These riding parties were very frequent, Cyril and Frank joining; sometimes John Magnus, but never upon the days when Julia was prevailed upon to mount. For Cyril was supposed to be staying with his young wife at the farm, but he passed the greater part of his time at the rectory, when he was not at Gatley with his brother. It was a pleasant time, for the roads were hard that winter, the air crisp and dry, giving a tone to the nerves and muscles, and an elasticity to the mind, that made even quiet James Magnus look more like himself, while there were times when Julia looked less dreamy and pale, and as if the thoughts of her persecutor were less frequent in her breast.