“I will order him round,” she said, rising. Walter did not quite enjoy her consenting so easily; had she no fear for him of the risk Mr. Sefton would not run? “She wants me to cut a good figure!” he said to himself, and went to get ready. I have no deed of prowess on Walter’s part to record. The instant he was in the saddle, Red Racket recognized a master. “You can’t have ridden him before?” questioned Lufa. “I never saw him till this morning.” “He likes you, I suppose!” she said. As they returned, the other ladies being in front, and the groom some distance behind, Walter brought his roan side by side with Lufa’s horse, and said-- “You know Browning’s ‘Last Ride Together’?” “Yes,” she answered, with a faint blush; “but this is not our last ride! It is our first! Why didn’t you tell me? We might have had many rides together!” “Promise me a last one,” he said. “How can I? How should I know it was the last?” “Promise,” he persisted, “that if ever you see just one last ride possible, you will let me know.” She hesitated a moment, then answered-- “I will.” “Thank you!” said Walter with fervor. As by consent, they rode after the others. Walter had not yet the courage to say anything definite. But he had said many things that must have compelled her to imagine what he had not said; therefore the promise she had given him seemed encouraging. They rode in silence the rest of the way. When Sefton saw Red Racket as quiet as a lamb, he went up to him, stroked his neck, and said to Walter: “With me he would have capered like an idiot till he had thrown me. It is always my luck with horses of his color! You must have a light hand!” He stroked his neck once more, turned aside, and was too late to help the ladies dismount. It was the last ride for the present, because of a change in the weather. In a few days came “The Field Battery” with Walter’s review, bringing a revival of the self-reproach he had begun to forget. The paper felt in his hand like bad news or something nasty. He could not bear the thought of having to take his part in the talk it would occasion. It could not now be helped, however, and that was a great comfort! It was impossible, none the less, to keep it up! As he had foreseen, all this time came no revival of his first impression of the poem. He went to find his hostess, and told her he must go to London that same afternoon. As he took his leave, he put the paper In Lufa’s hand, saying, “You will find there what I have said about the poem.” CHAPTER XVII. HIS BOOK.