nerve I possessed long ago."

"We are late, and it's farther round than I thought," said Stafford.
"The horses are fresh."

"I daresay; very probably Pottinger has given them a double feed; he
would naturally like them to dash up in fine style. But if it's all the
same to you"--as the horses broke into a gallop--"I should prefer to
arrive at your father's 'little place' in a more dignified fashion than
on a stretcher."

Stafford smiled and checked the high-spirited pair.

"You talk of women as if they were a--a kind of plague; you were never
in love, Howard?" he asked.

"Never, thank Heaven!" responded Howard, devoutly. "When I think of it,
I acknowledge that I have much to be thankful for. I was once: she was
a girl with dark eyes--but I will spare you a minute description. I met
her in a country rectory--_is_ that horse, I think you call it the near
one--going to jump over the bank? And one remarkably fine evening--it
was moonlight, I remember--I was on the point of declaring my love; and
then the gods saved me. The thought flashed upon me that, if she said
'yes,' I should have to sit opposite her at dinner for the rest of one
of our lives. It saved me. I said that I thought it was chilly, and
went in and up to bed, grateful for my escape. Why don't you laugh?"

Stafford only smiled in a perfunctory fashion. He was thinking of the
girl he had watched riding off on the unbroken colt; of what it would
seem like if she were seated opposite him, with the candle-light
falling on her soft white dress, with diamonds gleaming in it, diamonds
outshone by the splendour of those dark, violet-grey eyes; of what it
would seem like if he could rise from his seat and go to her and take
her in his arms and look into those dark grey eyes, and say, "You are
mine, mine!" with no one to say him nay.

"It was a lucky escape for her," he said, dreamily.

"It was," assented Howard, solemnly. "Not one man in a thousand can
love one woman all his life; and I've the strongest conviction that I
am not that one. In less than six months I should have grown tired of
her--in less than a year I should have flown from the joys of
matrimony--or killed the partner of those joys. Has Pottinger a wife
and family, my dear Stafford? If so, is it wise to risk his life in
this fashion? I don't care for myself--though still young, I am not
afraid to die, and I would as soon meet it hurled from a phaeton as
not--but may I beg of you to think of Pottin