Presently, the horse quickened his pace of his own accord; and the sound of hoofs behind him produced its usual inspiriting effect on the rider. “Company, at all events,” observed Mr. Sawyer, aloud. “Hold up, you brute!” he added, as Hotspur made an egregious “bite,” that nearly landed him on his nose. Ere long, the new arrivals ranged alongside of him. They were a lady and gentleman, on exceedingly tired horses. What a piece of luck! They were no other than the Reverend and Miss Dove! “She knew me at once, though it’s so dark,” thought our friend, with considerable gratification, as the damsel, adapting her own pace to that of the jaded Hotspur without difficulty, accosted him by name. “How lucky, too!” said she, in her joyous tones. “We shall keep each other company all the way to Harborough. Papa and I were just saying how lonely the road was, after dark; and our poor horses are so tired, they can hardly walk.” “Lucky indeed, for _me_,” replied Mr. Sawyer, gallantly, adding with considerable _empressement_—for it was dark enough to give a shy man confidence—“Do you know, I was just thinking of you?” The Reverend had dropped behind to light a cigar. Miss Dove seemed to have no objection to receive this statement: of the truth of which I have myself, however, strong doubts. She edged her horse a little nearer her companion, and answered laughingly, “Indeed! A penny for your thoughts, then. I should like to know what you _could_ have been thinking about _me_ in the dark, after a day’s hunting.” “I was thinking how well you rode,” answered Mr. Sawyer, who, not much versed in the ways of womankind, saw he might have said something more flattering, but like a frightened bather, put one foot in, and then withdrew it. It was not _his line_, you see, as he said himself; and consequently he felt a little awkward at first with the ladies. The latter, however, are in all cases strenuous advocates for the “sliding scale” rather than the “fixed duty.” I think I have observed that they are usually as ready to bring a shy man “on” as they are to keep a forward one back. There is a certain temperature at which they consider you malleable; so they heat you up, or cool you down to it, with no small chemical skill. Sometimes, but rarely, they burn their own fingers in the process. “I was wondering how _you_ would get home,” said the young lady very innocently after a pause. “Your poor horse looked so very tired; but, then, he carried you famously. Papa and I knew you by your cap—didn’t we, Papa?” Papa, who had now come up, corroborated his daughter; but the Reverend was somewhat abstracted and unobservant. He was not quite satisfied with the way his horse had carried him. He doubted whether the animal had pace. He doubted whether he had blood. He doubted whether he had courage. In truth, he was thinking just then whether he hadn’t better sell him to Mr. Sawyer.