"Right you are, and I’ll have a man here to put that plaster on in the morning, holiday or no holiday," promised Peter. In ten minutes the plaster had been swept up, Jane’s hair had received a thorough brushing, Mr. Bell had been relieved of several lumps which had worked their way down his back, and the family went to bed in as good spirits as if nothing had happened. The next morning Peter started early in quest of a plasterer to restore the ceiling, and finding it by no means easy to discover one who cared to work when he might play, came home after two hours’ search baffled but still determined. A passing acquaintance gave him a clue, and he was presently hurrying across the street in search of the Townsends’ coachman, whose brother, the acquaintance had said, might be persuaded to do the job. In the stables, much to his astonishment, he came fairly upon the girl whose propensity for losing things he had described with so much gusto the evening before. "I beg your pardon," he said, quickly--he seemed to be always begging her pardon--"but I was looking for your coachman. I--he--I hoped he could tell me the name--that is, of course he knows the name--I mean, I wanted his brother’s address." Peter was no stammerer, and it irritated him very much to be saying all this so awkwardly, but there was something about the cool dark eyes of this girl, as she stood looking at him, which rather disconcerted him. She had evidently just dismounted from her horse, and now Peter observed two things--first that she was rather oddly pale, and second, that her side-saddle had slipped, and rested at an altogether improper angle upon the horse’s back. As he saw this he came forward. "What is the matter?" he asked quickly. "You haven’t had a fall? You didn’t ride this way, of course?" "Yes, I did," she answered, lifting her head rather high, and then suddenly drooping it again. "How far? When did it slip? Were you alone?" Peter examined the side-saddle. "It began to slip--back--at--the boulevard," said the girl, rather slowly. "I--I don’t know just how I kept on, but I did. Lewis is n’t here. He ought to be. I can’t put up Blackthorn myself." "Let me do it for you." Peter took the bridle from her. He soon had the horse in the stall and had put away the saddle and bridle. "That was a plucky thing to do," declared Peter, coming back to the stable door, where the girl had dropped into the coachman’s chair, "to ride home with a slipping saddle. But you ought not to have done it, you know. It might have slipped a lot more with a jerk, and thrown you. See here, you ’re not feeling just right, are you? Shall I call somebody?" "No, no!" She started up. "If mother knew the least thing went wrong she would n’t let me ride at all. If you--if you just would n’t mind staying here a little, till I feel like myself again----" "Why, of course I will"--and Peter stayed.