Black put spurs to his horse and dashed on. He knew where the Dingle Farm was, it having been pointed out to him by Lady Wynde, as a portion of the Hawkhurst property. The ride was a favorite one with Neva, being unusually diversified. The road led through the Dingle wood, across a common, and skirted a chalk-pit of unusual size and depth. Craven Black turned off from the main road into a narrower one that led across the country, and pursued this course until he entered into the cool shadows of the Dingle wood. Still riding briskly, he came out a little later upon the Dingle common, a square mile of unfenced heath, covered with furze bushes. At the further edge of the common was the chalk-pit, now disused. The road ran dangerously near to the precipitous side of the pit, and there was no railing or fence to serve as a safeguard. Beyond the chalk-pit lay the Dingle Farm, a cozy, red brick farm-house, embowered with trees. The morning was clear and bright, and the sun was shining. As Craven Black emerged from the shadow of the wood he swept a keen glance over the level common, and beheld a mile or more away, beyond the chalk-pit, but approaching it, the figure of Miss Wynde. She was superbly mounted upon a thoroughbred horse, and was followed at a little distance by her groom. Even at that distance, Craven Black noticed how well Neva sat her horse; how erectly she carried her lithe, light figure; how proudly the little head was poised upon her shoulders. She was coming on toward him at a sweeping gait, her long green robe fluttering in the swift breeze she made. “She will be a wife to be proud of,” thought Craven Black, with a strange stirring at his heart. “How fearless she is. One would think she would pass the chalk-pit at a walk, but it is evident she does not intend to.” He dashed on to meet her. Neva saw him coming, recognized him, and the close grasp upon her bridle rein relaxed, and the fierce gallop subsided into a quiet canter. She was past the chalk-pit when he came up to her, and she bowed to him coldly, but courteously. “Good-morning, Miss Wynde,” said Mr. Black. “You were having a mad ride here. I fairly shuddered when I saw you coming. A single sheer on the part of your horse would have sent you over the precipice.” “Oh, Badjour and I understand each other,” said Neva lightly, patting the horse’s proudly arched neck. “I never ride a horse, Mr. Black, if I have not confidence in my ability to control him.” “But the road is so narrow and dangerous at this point,” said Craven Black, wheeling and riding slowly at her side. “You are right, Mr. Black. The road must be fenced in. I will speak to Lord Towyn about it.” “And why not to Sir John Freise or Mr. Atkins, who are equally your guardians?” asked Craven Black, with an attempt at playfulness. “Because I presume I shall see Lord Towyn first,” replied Neva, gravely. “What do you say to a race, Mr. Black? I see that you are returning with me.”