Ah! my Constance! But God was good to you
and to us in you.
"Where shall we go, Connie?" I said, and the same moment the sound of the
horses' hoofs reached us.
"Would it be too far to go to Addicehead?" she returned.
"It is a long ride," I answered.
"Too much for the pony?"
"O dear, no--not at all. I was thinking of you, not of the pony."
"I'm quite as able to ride as the pony is to carry me, papa. And I want to
get something for Wynnie. Do let us go."
"Very well, my dear," I said, and raised her to the saddle--if I may say
_raised_, for no bird ever hopped more lightly from one twig to another
than she sprung from the ground on her pony's back.
In a moment I was beside her, and away we rode.
The shadows were still long, the dew still pearly on the spiders' webs, as
we trotted out of our own grounds into a lane that led away towards the
high road. Our horses were fresh and the air was exciting; so we turned
from the hard road into the first suitable field, and had a gallop to begin
with. Constance was a good horse-woman, for she had been used to the saddle
longer than she could remember. She was now riding a tall well-bred pony,
with plenty of life--rather too much, I sometimes thought, when I was out
with Wynnie; but I never thought so when I was with Constance.
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