“James,” said I indignantly, “what do you mean by driving those horses at such a gait?” James, when the horses had stopped, had sprung from the seat and was now at their heads talking in a low voice to them and patting them in order to calm them. Minerva came to herself, said “Oh Lawdy! Are we back again, already?” and climbed ungracefully out of the carriage. The horses were white with lather, their tongues lolling out of their mouths; and the wagon was sadly scratched. It was a mortifying moment for a liver of the simple life. “James, what happened?” said I, sternly. And then John came limping up, with a flesh wound on his forehead and shaking his fist at James, and with his cockaded hat in his hand said to Mrs. Guernsea, “I met him trying to run away with the horses ma’am, and I tried to stop him. The cheek of him, ma’am!” James gave a contemptuous grunt, and leaving the horses, who had calmed down wonderfully under his ministrations, he pointed to a cut on the flank of the nigh horse. “That’s what started the trouble, madam,” said he, “and it was your driver that threw the stone.” I will say for Mrs. Guernsea, that she behaved like a thoroughbred. She was evidently a woman who reasoned things out, and she knew something of the principles of the simple life, for she said: “Everybody meant well, I’ve no doubt, and the thing is all over now.” John was blanketing the sweating horses. “Don’t let it worry you an instant, Mr. Vernon,” said she. “It was all an accident.” I tried to get them to come indoors and take some refreshment, for the last few moments had been more strenuous than simple, but they decided that it was better for the horses to exercise them a little more and so they drove slowly home, and Bert went after his horse which had not hurt itself, and the minister went on to pick up his wife whom he had left at the first turn. “And it was really all your fault,” said Ethel, smilingly, after James and Minerva had departed to the kitchen. “Well, it gave Minerva something to think about and made life worth living for the Guernseas.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XIII AN UNSUCCESSFUL FIASCO. I AM not quite sure whether I have spoken of it but by profession, trade, occupation, I am a writer. I write short stories under an assumed name and therefore the telling of the events of the summer is in a manner easy for me.