“Nothing, nothing—please go on.” “And yet you can scarcely keep your seat. Are you nervous, Miss Churchill?” “Yes, very.” “I should think so; you should have medical advice,” and touching his horse, they galloped forward. They soon entered an open forest glade in which stood the church, a red brick building, having the form of a cross. Many broken tombstones were all around it, and scattering trees to which were tied numerous horses, and nearly filling up the glade were hundreds of vehicles of every description, from the ox-cart to the splendid coach and pair. Alighting near a horse-block, he fastened his horse, and lifting her from the pillion, led her into the church, which was already crowded, and up the long middle aisle to the pew of Emily, which was the top pew on the right hand facing the pulpit; he opened the door, saw her seated, and passed on to his reading-desk. Emily observed the pale face and trembling frame of her friend, but had no opportunity of inquiring the cause, which she naturally associated with her delay in overtaking her. Nor was this opportunity afforded after church, when the congregation all crowded around to speak to their new minister. Mr. Gardiner Green, a wealthy planter, the nearest neighbor of Emily, performed the part of master of ceremonies. It is true that all had seen Mr. Withers at Mr. May’s funeral, but upon such an occasion as that, of course there could be but few introductions. It was an hour before the congregation were all in their saddles or their vehicles, and ready to disperse. When our little party were mounted and had entered the forest, the pastor said, “Your young friend, Miss Churchill, is a celebrated horsewoman, is she not, Mrs. May?” “_Very._ Sophie is the best rider of all the ladies of this county,” said Emily, unsuspiciously, “but what detained you so long?” “While I was hunting for Miss Churchill’s gloves, her horse suddenly started and ran off with her; dashed down the bank and into the river. She kept her seat like a heroine, and so was saved.” Emily evinced less surprise than might have been expected, merely remarking, “I have known Sophie Churchill to ford that river on horseback when a mere child.” “Yet Miss Churchill seems very timid too.” “She is. Her good horsemanship is merely habit—she has been accustomed to ride from infancy; but to-day Sophie certainly is nervous—what is the matter with you, Sophie, my love?” Sophie spoke of her fright in the forest, yet persisted in refusing to explain it. They reached home. Dinner was ready, the ladies laid off their bonnets, and all sat down to the table. Immediately after dinner the minister arose and retired to his chamber, and Sophie drew a long free breath, as though a stricture were removed from her chest. “Come into our bedroom, and let’s put on our loose wrappers and lie down, Sophie; it is really fatiguing these long rides to church and back.”