‘What?’ exclaimed Alec, and then he burst into a roar of laughter. ‘That’s a good joke,’ said he, as if I had said something superlatively witty; ‘but I say,’ he continued, with a serious look in his bonny blue eyes, ‘you’d better not say anything of that kind to my father.’ ‘Why not?’ I asked, but Alec did not answer me. His attention was attracted by a child which was playing in the road, right in front of us. He called out, but the little one did not seem to hear him, and he slackened the mare’s pace almost to a walk. We were just approaching the last of the side streets, and at that moment a gig, drawn by a powerful bay horse, appeared coming rapidly round the corner. It was evident that there must be a collision, though, owing to Alec’s having slackened his pace so much, it could not be a serious one. But the child? Before I could cry out, before I could think, Alec was out of the trap and snatching the little boy from under the horse’s very nose. I never saw a narrower escape; how he was not struck down himself, I cannot imagine. The next moment the gig, which had brushed against our vehicle without doing it much damage, had disappeared down the road; and a woman, clad in a short linsey petticoat and a wide sleeveless bodice of printed cotton, had rushed out of the opposite house and was roundly abusing Alec for having nearly killed her child. Without paying much attention to her, Alec walked round to the other side of the dog-cart to see what damage had been done, and muttering to himself, ‘I’m thankful it’s no worse,’ he climbed back into his place, and we resumed our journey, while the young Caledonian was acknowledging sundry tender marks of his mother’s affection with screams like those of a locomotive. Another half-hour’s drive brought us to a five-barred gate which admitted us to a narrow and particularly rough lane. We jolted on for a few minutes, and then the loud barking of several dogs announced that we had arrived at the farm. But I must keep my description of its inhabitants for my next epistle. I am too sleepy to write more. Good-night. Your affectionate cousin, HUBERT BLAKE. CHAPTER II. THE SECOND LETTER. _Hubert Blake to Sophy Meredith._ THE CASTLE FARM, MUIRBURN, N.B. _September 15._ DEAR SOPHY, I think I shall like this place, and shall probably stay till the beginning of winter. I have begun a large picture of a really beautiful spot which I found close by two days ago, and I should like to see my painting well on to completion before I return, lest I should be tempted to leave it unfinished, like so many others, when I get back to town.