‘Not a bit of it, mother! If ever you rode as David Barclay says you did, I don’t see why you shouldn’t ride still. He’s a splendid creature! David told me you liked a big fellow. Just put on your habit, mammy, and we’ll take a gallop across, and astonish the old man a bit.’ ‘My dear boy, I have no nerve! I’m not the woman I was! It’s my own fault, I know, and I’m both sorry and ashamed.’ ‘We are both going to try to be good, mother dear!’ faltered Francis. The poor woman pressed her handkerchief with both hands to her face, and wept for a few moments in silence, then rose and left the room. In an hour she was ready, and out looking for Francis. Her habit was a little too tight for her, but wearable enough. The horses were sent for, and they mounted. CHAPTER XLI TWO HORSEWOMEN There was at Corbyknowe a young, well-bred horse which David had himself reared: Kirsty had been teaching him to carry a lady. For her hostess in Edinburgh, discovering that she was fond of riding and that she had no saddle, had made her a present of her own: she had not used it for many years, but it was in very good condition, and none the worse for being a little old-fashioned. That same morning Kirsty had put on a blue riding-habit, which also lady Macintosh had given her, and was out on the highest slope of the farm, hoping to catch a sight of the two on horseback together, and so learn that her scheme was a success. She had been on the outlook for about an hour, when she saw them coming along between the castle and Corbyknowe, and went straight for a certain point in the road so as to reach it simultaneously with them. For she had just spied a chance of giving Gordon the opportunity which her father had told her he was longing for, of saying something about her to his mother. ‘Who can that be?’ said Mrs. Gordon as they trotted gently along, when she spied the lady on horseback. ‘She rides well! But she seems to be alone! Is there really nobody with her?’ As she spoke, the young horse came over a _dry-stane-dyke_ in fine style. ‘Why, she’s an accomplished horsewoman!’ exclaimed Mrs. Gordon. ‘She must be a stranger! There’s not a lady within thirty miles of Weelset can ride like that!’ ‘No such stranger as you think, mother!’ rejoined Francis. ‘That’s Kirsty Barclay of Corbyknowe.’ ‘Never, Francis! The girl rides like a lady!’ Francis smiled, perhaps a little triumphantly. Something like what lay in the smile the mother read in it, for it roused at once both her jealousy and her pride. _Her_ son to fall in love with a girl that was not even a lady! A Gordon of Weelset to marry a tenant’s daughter! Impossible! Kirsty was now in the road before them, riding slowly in the same direction. It was the progress, however, not the horse that was slow: his frolics, especially when the other horses drew near, kept his rider sufficiently occupied.