"Why not, pray? You surely aren’t afraid he’ll bite you?" said Monica sharply. She had an intense scorn for those who were afraid. "You’ll never be any good for a coachman if you’re afraid of a _pony_." And her proud young face expressed disgust. "Please, miss, ’tisn’t that a bit," said the boy, his big grey eyes upraised to hers pleadingly; for he was devoted to Miss Monica. "I ain’t a mite afraid of ’im, but Mr. Richards ’e said, said ’e: ’Now, Tom, you leave that there pony alone,’ says ’e. ’If ’e don’t bite, if ’e gits a chance, my name ain’t Richards. You may depend,’ says ’e, ’’e weren’t called "Seize-’er" for nothin’.’" "Nonsense!" said Monica, scornfully, although she was tickled with the man’s unconscious pun. "You wouldn’t bite me, would you, old boy?" she added to the little chestnut, who eyed her rather maliciously as she entered the stall, and put out her hand to rub his soft brown nose. "Oh, don’t, miss, please don’t!" cried the little stable-boy, as he tried to snatch her hand away. But even as he spoke the pony made a grab at the girlish fingers, and Monica realised too late that she would have been wiser to pay attention to the boy’s warning, for her hand ached terribly, and there were ugly tooth marks on the palm and one or two fingers. "You little wretch! You horrid little vixen!" she cried, in pain and anger, as she bound her hand, fortunately the left one, in her handkerchief, and tried to still the throbbing. The pony, quiet enough now, appeared to take no notice of the epithets she poured out upon him, and Tom stood helplessly by, his very soul in his liquid grey eyes, wishing with all his heart, poor little chap, that it had happened to him instead of to his adored young lady. "Please, miss," he suggested timidly, "’adn’t you better go indoors, and get something to do your ’and good. Shall I run round to the kitchen and tell ’em?" Monica blessed the warm-hearted little lad for his evident desire to make matters a little easier for her indoors, and gladly assented to his plan. She was thankful when she reached the house that she was saved the effort of telling what had happened, for she felt a curious sensation all over her, and was seized with a desire to fall into the first chair she came to. Surely she was not going to faint? Monica Beauchamp had never been known to have nerves before! "Mercy on us, Miss Monica, you do look bad!" cried the kindly old cook, as she called to one of the maids for a glass of water, and sent another for the vinegar bottle. "La, what a nasty grip the little beast give you!" she added, as the handkerchief fell off, and revealed the extent of the damage. "Get a bowl of warm water, Mary Ann, quick!" And in another minute she was gently bathing the injured hand in the water, to which she had added a little Condy’s fluid.