“Oh! as for that, I never met the man, nor woman either, that could bring into the world a mind unburdened by care. You must take life as it is. If I was to wait for a heart at ease before I went into society, I 'd have to decline a few dinner-parties. Your only chance of a little respite, besides, is at your age. The misfortunes of life begin as a little drizzle, but become a regular downpour when one gets to _my_ time of life. Let me just tell you what this morning brought forth. A letter and then a telegram from my wife, to tell me that my favorite horse--an animal worth five hundred pounds if he was worth five shillings--the truest, bravest, best horse I ever backed--has just been killed by a stupid fellow I got to ride for me. What he did to make the horse refuse his leap, what magic he used, what conjuring trick he performed, I can't tell. With _me_ it was enough to show him his fence, and if I wanted it I could n't have held him back. But this fellow--a dragoon, too, and the crack rider of his regiment--contrives to discourage my poor beast, then rushes him at the jump at half speed. I know it was a widish brook, and they tumbled in, and my horse smashed his blade bone,--of course there was nothing for it but to shoot him.” “How sad! I am really sorry for you.” “And all this came of the old Judge's message, the stupidity of sending me five words in a telegram, instead of writing a proper note, and saying what he wanted. But for that I 'd have stayed at home, ridden my horse, won my match, and spared myself the whole disaster.” “Grandpapa is often very hasty in his decisions, but I believe he seldom sees cause to revoke them.” “The old theory, 'The King can do no wrong,'” said Sewell, with a saucy laugh; “but remember he can often do a deal of mischief incidentally, as it were,--as on the present occasion.” “And the rider, what of him? Did he escape unhurt?” said she, eager to avoid unpleasant discussion. “The rider! my dear young lady,” said he, with affected slowness,--“the rider came to grief. What he did, or how he did it, to throw my poor horse down, is his own secret, and, from what I hear, he is likely to keep it. No, no, don't look so horrified,--he's not killed, but I don't suspect he's a long way off it. He got a smashing fall at a fence I 'd have backed myself to ride with my hands tied. Ay, and to have my good horse back again, I 'd ride in that fashion to-morrow.” “And the poor fellow, where is he now?” “The poor fellow is receiving the very sweetest of Mrs. Sewell's attentions. He is at my house,--in all likelihood in my room,--not that he is very conscious of all the favors bestowed upon him.” “Oh, don't talk with that pretended indifference! You must be, you cannot help being, deeply sorry for what has happened.” “There can be very little doubt on that score. I've lost such a horse as I never shall own again.” “Pray think of something beside your horse. Who was he? What's his name?”