"But Leo will be very careful," said Mary, interposing to end a scene which was agony to her. "I am quite ready, Leo." "Yes, let's go," said the latter. "Hartley wants to sell you the horse at a profit, Dr North," she added banteringly. "Good morning all." The curate said no more, but handed his sisters into the light low phaeton, Leo taking the reins in the most business-like manner before mounting, and then sitting upright on the raised seat in a way that would have satisfied the most exacting whip. The mare started off at a touch, with her neck arched and her head well down, the wheels spinning merrily in unison with the sharp trot of the well-shaped hoofs. "An uncommonly pretty little turn-out, old fellow," said the doctor, as he sat in the saddle watching critically till the chaise turned the corner; "and your sister drives admirably." "Yes," said the curate rather dolefully; "she drives like she rides." "And that's better than any lady who follows our pack of hounds," cried the doctor. "Now, if I had been anything of a fellow, I should have cantered along by their side, and shown myself off." "You would," assented the curate; and his countenance seemed to say, "I wish you had." "But, there, I am not anything of a fellow, and I have patients waiting, so here goes." He pressed his horse's flanks, and went off in the other direction at a trot, while the curate, with his troubled look increasing, walked into the house. "I suppose the mare's quite safe," he said; "and it pleases her. May take her attention off him. Poor Leo! It is very sad." Meanwhile the doctor continued his way till he reached the stocks--a dilapidated set, as ancient-looking as the whipping-post which kept them company, and both dying their worm-eaten death, as the custom of using them had died generations before. But they had their use still, the doctor's horse stopping short by them, as if he knew his goal, and his master dismounting, and throwing his rein over the post before entering a low cottage, with red tile sides and thick thatch roof. The door was so low that he had to stoop his head to enter a scrupulously clean cottage room, with uneven red brick floor, brightly-polished stove, with a home-made shred hearthrug in front, and for furniture a well-scrubbed deal table, a high Windsor chair, a beautifully--carved old oaken chest or coffer, and a great, old-fashioned, eight-day clock, whose heavy pendulum, visible through a glazed hole in its door, swung ponderously to right and said _chick_! and then to left and said _chack_!