"Nothing," replies he, with a laugh that is rather forced. "It was a mere bolt. If you had not fainted you would have known it was all over in a few minutes." "It was the whip," I whisper, still nervous. "Yes; it was all my fault. I quite forgot Markham's caution. I have to apologize very sincerely for my mistake." "Never mind apologies," I say, laughing, "as we are safe. I never remember being so terrified in my life, not even when my steed nearly deposited me in the middle of the High street in Carston. And you," I continue, in a half-amused tone, peering at him from under my hat--"you were frightened too? Confess it." "I was," returned he, carefully evading my gaze. "But why, if, as you say, there was no danger?" "There are worse things than runaway ponies--your fainting, for instance. I thought you were never going to open your eyes again, you looked so horribly white and cold--so like death." "What a lovely picture!" laughing voluntarily. "Well, console yourself; you have seen what nobody else ever saw Phyllis Carrington fainting. I had no idea I had it in me. I really think I must be growing delicate, or weak-minded." In silence Sir Mark gathers up the reins, and once more the ponies start forward. "Now, Dora can faint to perfection," I go on, finding immense enjoyment in my subject. "If she is vexed or troubled in any way, or hears thunder, she can go off gracefully into the arms of whoever happens to be nearest to her at the time. She never fails; it is indeed wonderful how accurately she can measure distance, even at the last moment. While as for me, I do believe if I were scolded until nothing more was left to be said, or if it thundered and lightened from this to to-morrow, it would not have the effect of removing my senses. At least up to this I have found it so. For the future I shall be less certain. But how silent you are, and how cross you look! Still thinking of the obdurate fair one?" "Of her--and many other things." "Well, perhaps she too is thinking of you." "I can imagine nothing more probable," with a grim smile. "Neither can I." My treacherous spirits are again ascending, "Let me describe her to you as at this moment I almost think I can see her. Seated in a bower, enshrined in roses and honeysuckles, with her hands folded listlessly upon her lap, and her large dreamy black eyes (I am sure her eyes are black) filled with repentant tears, she is now remembering with what cruel coldness she received your advances; while unmolested the pretty earwigs run races all over her simple white dress--simple but elegant, you know." "H'm--yes."