The parson was already mounted, and before Sophie had time to reply, he rode up to where she was standing on the horse-block, stooped his giant arm, and lifting her lightly to the pillion, drew her arms around his waist and cantered off. Earth and sky swam together in Sophie’s vision as they went. Emily was in her saddle, and Kitty lifted up and set her boy behind her, and then taking the infant Hagar in her arms went into the house. Emily paced soberly along—Master Gusty was quarrelling all the way, asserting that it was _his_ right to ride and his mother ought to sit behind _him_, like the parson and Miss Sophie. Mr. Withers was waiting for them in the shadow of the forest just at its entrance. At another time Emily could scarcely have suppressed a smile at seeing the cold, dead white face and dilated eyes of Sophie Churchill, with her fingers, which spellbound she scarcely durst withdraw, stiff and pale as tallow candles thrown into strong relief upon the black broadcloth of the parson’s coat. “Where are your gloves, Miss Churchill?” said Emily. “I had not drawn them on, and I lost them on our ride. _I want to get down and go back and get them_,” said Sophie, in an imploring voice. “Mrs. May—ride forward, madam, and I will canter back with Miss Churchill in search of her gloves!” “No, no, no! no, I thank you!—it will be too late,” gasped Sophie—but even while she spoke he had wheeled his horse and was going back. “You should not have named your wish _to get down_ and return then,” said he, in his sweet, dear tones. They had ridden back about an eighth of a mile when Sophie, anxious to rejoin her other companions, said— “I think I lost my gloves about here.” Mr. Withers alighted, and placing the reins and his riding-whip in the hands of Miss Churchill, favored the poor girl with a look full in the face that froze the blood in her veins. She thought of the long ride they would now have to take through the forest alone, and her heart died within her. She watched him, nervously saw him pick up the gloves and turn to approach, she looked at him with the eyes of a startled fawn ready for flight—she met the same basilisk gaze—it maddened her—suddenly jerking the bit and putting whip to her horse, she sped from the spot like an arrow from a bow, and fled across the common with a vague idea of reaching her own home—he shouted: