I was glad enough to sink on a clump of white clover. He stretched himself on the heather, a little way from me. Silence followed. He was giving me time to recover myself. As soon, therefore, as I was able, it was my part to speak. “Where is your horse?” I asked. The first word is generally one hardly worth saying. “I left him at a little farmhouse, about a mile from here. I was afraid to bring him farther, lest my mother should learn where I had been. She takes pains to know.” “Then will she not find out?” “I don't know.” “Will she not ask you where you were?” “Perhaps. There's no knowing.” “You will tell her, of course, if she does?” “I think not.” “Oughtn't you?” “No.” “You are sure?” “Yes.” “You don't mean you will tell her a story?” “Certainly not.” “What will you do then?” “I will tell her that I will not tell her.” “Would that be right?” Through the dusk I could see the light of his smile as he answered, “I think so. I shall not tell her.” “But,” I began. He interrupted me. My heart was sinking within me. Not only had I wanted him to help me to tell my uncle, but I shuddered at the idea of having with any man a secret from his mother. “It must look strange to you,” he said; “but you do not know my mother!” “I think I do know your mother,” I rejoined. “She saved my poor little life once.--I am not sure it was your mother, but I think it was.” “How was that?” he said, much surprised. “When was it?” “Many years ago--I cannot tell how many,” I answered. “But I remember all about it well enough. I cannot have been more than eight, I imagine.” “Could she have been at the manor then?” he said, putting the question to himself, not me. “How was it? Tell me,” he went on, rising to his feet, and looking at me with almost a frightened expression. I told him the incident, and he heard me in absolute silence. When I had done,-- “It _was_ my mother!” he broke out; “I don't know one other woman who would have let a child walk like that! Any other would have taken you up, or put you on the horse and walked beside you!” “A gentleman would, I know,” I replied. “But it would not be so easy for a lady!” _“She_ could have done either well enough. She's as strong as a horse herself, and rides like an Amazon. But I am not in the least surprised: it was just like her! You poor little darling! It nearly makes me cry to think of the tiny feet going tramp, tramp, all that horrible way, and she high up on her big horse! She always rides the biggest horse she can get!--And then never to say a word to you after she brought you home, or see you the next morning!” “Mr. Day,” I returned, “I would not have told you, had I known it would give you occasion to speak so naughtily of your mother. You make me unhappy.” He was silent. I thought he was ashamed of himself, and was sorry for him. But my sympathy was wasted. He broke into a murmuring laugh of merriment.