‘She’s a great deal older than we are, or she couldn’t be our mother. Come, Jan, are you game for a long spin? It’s almost the last time these holidays. Hurrah, then, off we go!’ And off they went in a wild career, Janet following breathless, gasping, her dark hair flying behind her, her hat often in danger, wherever he led. She would not allow that she had any fear; but it was a long ride, and the way was confused by the cross cuts which Tom knew only imperfectly, and which made it longer, besides leading them over moors and across fields which excited their horses and kept the young riders at a full strain, to which Janet’s immature powers were quite unaccustomed. She was dreadfully dishevelled and shaken to pieces upon their arrival at the large rough establishment to which her brother had already paid many visits, and where they were received by a chorus of innumerable dogs and lounging men whose appearance was very alarming to Janet. They looked like keepers, she thought, or grooms, not like people who would naturally be greeted as friends, which was what Tom was doing, shaking hands with the big and bearded master of the house and the younger man, presumably his son, and calling out salutations in as good an imitation of the broad country dialect as he could accomplish to the others. Janet was aware that her own aspect was very wild, and she was very tired; but she clung to her saddle when that big gamekeeper approached with a mixture of pride and shame. ‘So this is your sister, Maister Tom? Charlie, cry on your mother,’ cried the man; ‘the mistress will be here in a moment, missie. Let me lift ye down.’ ‘No, no,’ Janet said, ‘we can’t wait long. We must soon go back, it will be dark. Oh, Tom, we must get back.’ ‘Nonsense, Jan! Now I’ve got here I mean to stay awhile. And Blackmore’s awfully jolly; he’ll take you through the stables. Come, jump down.’ ‘Cry upon your mother, Charlie,’ said Blackmore again. ‘The young leddy thinks we’re a’ men folk here, and she’s frichtened. But ye must not be frichtened, my bonnie doo. Hey, Marget, where’s the mistress? And the powney’s a’ in a lather. Pit your hand upon my shoulder if you’ll no let me lift ye down.’