"But once? Is it not enough? Would you condemn any one to suffer the restless misery, the unsatisfied longing, a second time?" responds he moodily. "No; but it is bad for those who come after," I reply with deep dejection. "They must take their chance. The suffering cannot be all on one side. We must accept our share of misery, as it comes, with the best grace we can." "I will riot," I cry, passionately. "All my life I have determined to be happy, and I will succeed. Whatever happens, whatever comes of it, I refuse to be miserable." "What a child you are!" says he, almost pityingly. "I am not. I am talking quite rationally. I firmly believe we all make half our own grievances." "And what becomes of the other half?" "Let us leave the subject," I say petulantly, ignoring my inability to answer him. "You are dull and prosy. If you insist on being a martyr, be one, but do not insist also on my following in your footsteps. Because you choose to imagine yourself unhappy, is no reason why I should not be gay." "Certainly not," replies he, with increasing gloom, and brings the whip down sharply across the ponies' backs. Instantly, almost as the lash touches their glossy skins, they resent the insult. The carriage receives a violent shock. They fling themselves backwards on their haunches, and in another moment are flying wildly on, regardless of bit or curb or rein. As I realize the situation, I grow mad with fright. Losing all sense of self-control, I rise from my seat and prepare to throw myself out of the phaeton. Surely the hard and stony road must be preferable to this reckless deadly flight. Seeing my intention, Sir Mark rises also. "Phyllis, are you mad?" cries he, flinging his arms round me. "Your only chance is to remain quiet; Phyllis, be sensible. Sit down when I desire you." There is an almost savage ring in his tone. He holds me fast and forces me down into my seat. I struggle with all my strength for a moment or two to free myself from his strong grasp, and then a coldness covers me, and I faint. When my senses return to me, I find I am still in the carriage. The ponies are also to be seen, motionless in their places, except for the trembling that convulses their frames, while a fierce snort, every now and then, and tiny flecks of froth hither and thither and mingle with those already upon their backs and harness, betray their late panic. But we are safe, apparently, quite safe. Sir Mark's arm is supporting me, while with his other hand he holds something to my lips. It is that detestable thing called brandy, and I turn my head aside. "Take it," urges he, in a low, trembling tone; "whether you like it or not, it will do you good. Try to swallow some." I do as I am bid, and presently, feeling better, raise myself and look around for symptoms of a smash. "What have they done?" I ask, with a shudder, "Have they---"