"Don't say that, Hartley," cried Leo, with her face now full of animation. "We can afford the horse, and it was absolutely disgraceful to appear on poor old Grey Joe." "Grey Joe was a good safe horse, and I never felt nervous when you were mounted. Splendid fellow in harness too." "Yes, admirable!" cried Leo. "And now you can keep him always for the chaise. It will be so much better." The curate shook his head. "No," he said; "poor old Joe will have to so, and I wish him a wood master." "Poor old Joe!" said Mary, sighing, as she thought of many pleasant drives. "Grey Joe! Go!" said Leo, with her lips apart. "Then what will you do for the chaise?" "Use the new mare." Leo looked at him with speechless indignation. "Put the new mare in the chaise?" she faltered. "Yes, my dear. The man says she goes well in harness." "Oh, Hartley," cried Leo, flushing now with indignation, "that would be too absurd!" "Why, my dear?" "You get me a mount because it is so unpleasant to go to the meet on an old chaise-horse, and then talk of putting my hunter in the chaise." "Grey Joe was not good enough for the purpose," said the curate gravely, "and at your earnest wish, my dear Leo, I have pinched in several ways that my sister, who is so fond of hunting, may not be ashamed before her friends." "Pinched!" "Yes, my dear, pinched myself and Mary. Our consols money only gives three per cent., and it is hard work to make both ends meet. You have your mount, and I cannot afford to keep two horses, so Grey Joe must go. We must have the use of a horse in the chaise, so the mare will have to run in harness sometimes." Leo rose from her chair with her eyes flashing and cheek aflame. "I declare it's insufferable," she cried, with a stamp of the foot. "Oh, I am so sick of this life of beggary and pinching! All through this season I have been disgraced by that wretched old horse, and now when people who know me--Oh, I cannot bear to speak of it!" "My dear sister!" "It's cruel--it's abominable. If it had been Mary, she could have had what she pleased." "My dear Leo," began Mary, looking up at her in a troubled way. "Hold your tongue! You make mischief enough as it is. You always side with Hartley, who has no more feeling than a stone." "But, my dear child," began the curate. "Child! Yes; that's how you treat me--like a child. You check me in every way. I suppose you'll want to make me a nun, and keep me shut up always in this dreary hole. You check me in everything, and Mary helps you." Mary looked up at her brother now, for he had slowly risen from his seat, and she knew the meaning of the stern aspect of his countenance. "I had hoped, Leo," he said, "that you would have accepted my decision about that to which you have thought it wise to allude." "I am driven to it," cried the girl passionately.