“It was my fault,” said the sweetest voice from under the neck of the mare, to the top of which a tiny hand was trying to reach. “My feather must have tickled her nose!” She caught a glimpse of the blood, and turned white. “I am so sorry!” she said, almost tearfully. “I hope you're not much hurt, Richard!” Nothing seemed to escape her; she had already learned his name! “It's not worth being sorry about, miss!” returned Richard, with a laugh. “The mare meant no harm!” “That I'm sure she didn't--poor Miss Brown!” answered the girl, patting the mare's neck. “But I wish it had been _my_ hand instead!” “God forbid!” cried Richard. “That _would_ have been a calamity!” “It wouldn't have been half so great a one. My hand is--well, not of _much_ use. Yours can shoe a horse!” “Yours would have been spoiled; mine will shoe as well as before!” said Richard. It did not occur to the lady that the youth spoke better than might have been expected of a country smith. She was one of the elect few that meet every one on the common human ground, that never fear and never hurt. Her childish size and look harmonized with the childlike in her style, but she affected nothing. She would have spoken in the same way to prince or poet-laureate, and would have pleased either as much as the blacksmith. At the same time she did have pleasure in knowing that her frankness pleased. She could not help being aware that she was a favourite, and she wanted to be; but she wanted nothing more than to be a favourite. She desired it with old Betty, sir Wilton's dairymaid, just as much as with Mr. Lestrange, sir Wilton's heir; and everybody showed her favour, for she showed everybody grace. The old smith was finishing the shoeing, and the mare, well used to him, and with more faith in him, stood perfectly quiet. Richard, a little annoyed, had withdrawn, and scarce thinking what he did, had taken a rod of iron, thrust it into the fire, and begun to blow. The little lady approached him softly. “I'm _so_ sorry!” she said. “I shall be sorry too, if you think of it any more, miss!” answered Richard. “Then there will be two sorry where there needn't be one!” She looked up at him with a curious, interested, puzzled look, which seemed to say, “What a nice smith you are!” The youth's manners had a certain--what shall I call it?--not polish, but rhythm, which came of, or at least was nourished by his love of the finer elements in literature. His friendly converse with books, and through them with certain of the dead who still speak, fell in with yet deeper influences, helping to set him in right atomic position toward other human atoms. His breed also contributed something. Happily for Richard, a man is not born only of his father or his grandfather; mothers have a share in the form of his being; ancestors innumerable, men and women, leave their traces in him. But what I have ventured to call the rhythm of his manner came of his love of verse, and of the true material of verse.