“I wish I could have dinner with you,” replied Jinny frankly. “But I must be off to feed Gran’fer. Farmer Gale’s trap should be here by now.” “He drives you home too?” He turned towards her, startled. “Within half a mile—it _is_ a treat for me to have another carrier.” “But he isn’t a Peculiar,” he observed severely. “No, he’s a Wesleyan like Gran’fer, who used to drive his father about. He puts up at ‘The Chequers’ hard by his chapel—his service ought to be over. I hope his horse hasn’t taken fright again—we had just got to the High Street when the storm broke, and at the first flash the horse was off, galloped miles beyond the town before he could be got to a standstill.” “He might have killed you, the silly!” cried Will, meaning the farmer. “Yes,” said Jinny simply, meaning the animal. “By the time he was walked warily back, it was too late to go in. But I don’t wonder Nip was worried about me. You see he likes to run behind the trap, poor fellow”—she wasted a kiss upon his unresponsive head—“and he always comes up in time to say good-bye at the chapel door, where he hangs about till I come out. But this time, of course, he must have been wandering about in search of me. He wasn’t there when I passed just now. Mr. Flippance declares he must have gone to Chipstone Church, in the idea I’d suddenly joined it.” And the girlish laugh rang out, dissipating some of his humours as much by its joyousness as by the innocent mention of the Showman. “But why shouldn’t you join it, Miss Quarles?” he said. “It can’t be duller than chapel.” “Now, now, Will.” She shook a serious finger. “You ought to have gone to chapel yourself this morning. And don’t call me Miss Quarles.” “But I prefer to call you Miss Quarles.” “But why not Jinny?” Her voice was plaintive. “Because everybody else calls you that.” “Is that any reason why you should call me Miss Quarles?” “If you can’t see it——!” he began. “I can’t, and I hope you won’t call me Miss Quarles.” “And why shouldn’t I?” “Because I won’t answer to it.” “And why not?” “Because, Will, it’s not my name.” He gasped. “Not your name?” She laughed merrily at his discomfiture. “It’s a long story and Farmer Gale will be here. Hulloa,” she went on, making his confusion worse confounded, “how did Nip’s hairs get on you?” He flushed, and flicked nervously at his coat. “There are other white dogs,” he said evasively. “Well, don’t let him spoil your coat.” “And what about your bodice?” “Oh, mine isn’t new and Londony.” He was gratified at her perception: still more at her setting down Nip. That animal, however, was in the rampageous mood which always followed his restoration to freedom, and he began leaping up at his mistress’s hand. “Down, Nip, down! Oh, I do believe he’s bitten through my new glove!” She pulled it off ruefully to examine the damage. “Sensible dog!” Will growled. “He knows you oughtn’t to be wearing Mr. Flippance’s gloves.”