In the heart of this young girl there was no doubt too much of the worship of the instrument and too little recognition of the Hand to whose merciful Providence she owed her life. She had yet to learn that in times of sadness, trial, and death, "vain is the help of man" without the aid He alone can give. We shall find also as the story proceeds that Edward Armstrong was not so willing to give up his prejudices for the sake of his _own_ daughter, as he had been to oblige Mrs. St. Clair to give up hers when he wished to obtain Maria St. Clair as his wife. CHAPTER V. AT THE REVIEW. "Miss Mary, dear, wake up," said a pleasant middle-aged woman, as she gently shook the sleeper to whom she spoke; "it wants twenty minutes to eight, and Rowland will be here with the ponies presently." A pair of large blue eyes opened languidly and stared at the speaker. "What's the matter, nurse?" "Aren't you going to ride this morning, Miss Mary? you'll have to be quick if----" But Mary's senses were roused now, and the young girl of thirteen sprung out of bed, interrupting her nurse's speech. "I'll be ready, nurse, don't fear," she cried, as she began to dress with her usual quickness. "What did you say was the time?" "Twenty minutes to eight," was the reply, "so you've twenty-five minutes. Rowland is allowed to wait five minutes, I know." "Ah, yes," cried Mary, "but I wont keep him waiting at all, nurse," she added, "you need not stay. I laid out my habit and all I wanted in readiness last night." "To be sure, Miss Mary, you can be quick, I know, and no mistake; so I'll get out of your way if you don't want me." True to her word, the little lady appeared at the door in a few minutes after the groom arrived, and she was very soon cantering round the Regent's Park in the full enjoyment of this healthful exercise. Drawing rein as usual before crossing the New Road on her return towards home, she walked her pony through the Crescent, intending to enjoy a good canter up the broad thoroughfare of Portland Place. Scarcely had she reached the turning leading through private streets to Piccadilly, when the sound of horse's hoofs coming rapidly behind her caused her to turn her head, and the next moment pull up suddenly as a large black horse trotted quickly to her side. "Why, Mary," exclaimed the owner of the horse, "I had no idea you were such a capital rider. I saw a little lady cantering in front of me, but I should not have known who it was had not Rowland touched his hat as I passed; and what a clever little pony," he added, as he stooped low to pat the smooth black head and long flowing mane. "How long have you had him?" "Six months, uncle," she replied. "Papa bought him of Sir Henry Turner; his boys all learnt to ride on Boosey, but they have grown too old and too tall for such a small pony, so now he is mine." "What is the pony's name, Mary? It sounds peculiar."