“The horse is running away with you! rein up your horse,” and flew after her. She reached the banks of the river—gave one frightened look behind, and madly urged her steed down the bank and into the rushing water swollen by the recent thaw. The water was deep, and her steed floundered and struggled with the waves just as Withers appeared at the top of the bank—sped down—dashed into the water and seizing the rein swayed the horse around—drew him to the beach, and led him dripping and struggling up the bank. When they were once more on firm, high ground, he paused to breathe the horse; the water was dripping from the dress of Sophie, and her wet clothes were clinging tightly about her limbs. He leaned upon his elbow upon the pommel of her saddle and said, gravely, “You are an interesting young lady, Miss Churchill; your feats of horsemanship are surprising.” Sophie’s sudden plunge-bath, and the real danger she had passed, had somewhat restored the tone of her nervous system by putting to flight her imaginary terrors. The horse had now recovered his wind and they set forward, the preacher leading the horse—they reached the cottage gate—he assisted Sophie to alight—as she reached the ground she said— “You had better push forward to church, Mr. Withers; you will be too late.” He took his watch calmly from his pocket and holding it near her face, said— “See, it wants a quarter to nine o’clock; if you hurry and change your dress we can get there in time.” “I am not going, sir.” “Then I shall stay home to take care of you—you need care after this morning’s adventure,” and so saying, he quietly began to unsaddle the horse. “Stop, I will go,” said Sophie, choosing the lighter evil, and she hurried in to change her dress. “What has happened, sir?” said Kitty, coming out. “The horse ran away with Miss Churchill,” replied he. Sophie now returned arrayed in a black silk, and was lifted tremblingly into her seat. They then set off at a brisk canter and soon entered the forest. Reader, do you like a dark forest road? If so, you would have been delighted with the forest road leading to this church, winding now through a deep dell where the branches met over head, and now up a steep hill over which the trees were thinly scattered. They had just entered a dark walk from which the thick overhanging branches excluded nearly every ray of light when Sophie, turning her head aside, her eyes fell upon some object couched in the underwood, her gaze was riveted, her eyes dilated, her lips fell apart, her face became ashy pale, and then a half-suppressed cry burst from her lips. The parson halted—turned around in his saddle— “What is the matter, Miss Churchill?” “Something frightened me in the bushes.” He looked scrutinizingly in every direction. “I see nothing—was it a wolf?” “No—let’s go on.” “Your heart is beating as though it would break its prison—you are shaking like an ague. Was it a bear?” “No, no—_do_ go on.” “_What_ was it then?”