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very neatly trimmed. His complexion was very sanguine and his eyes prominent; his breath smelt of wine; I judged him to be of a warm uncertain temper, indulgent to the point of foolishness except when he was crossed, when he would be very choleric and masterful. He was in truth a fine handsome figure of a man, and kindly; but I had not seen any person like him before, and I felt some fear of him.
    â€œFrancis has been thrown from his horse, he’s hurt,” I whispered. “Down by the beck.”
    â€œWhat will that lad do next?” muttered Mr. Ferrand, making his way along the passages and out of the back door. He did not sound vexed, however, but rather pleased, as if at bottom he was proud of his son’s escapades. “A horse? What horse?” he said in a loud tone when we were free of the house. “Ralph, come down with me, I may need you. A horse? What horse? By God, it’s Snowball!” he roared suddenly, as Snowball came into view, galloping in nervous fright about the field below, scattering the sheep in all directions. At this Mr. Ferrand bounded forward, and shouted angrily: “Who took him out of the stable? I’ll wring the varmint’s neck! Well, don’t stand there, you fool!” he bellowed, turning on the serving-man who was hurrying beside him: “Go and catch that horse!”
    At this moment he reached the edge of the bank, and saw Francis lying on the stones, his head pillowed on his cousin’s arm. Mr. Thorpe, bending over him, was throwing water on his face out of his high-crowned hat. The mastiff, Thunder, who was couched beside, at sight of his master thumped his tail once and raised his voice in a prolonged whine of misery and fear.
    â€œOh, Francis!” cried his father piteously, quite changing his tone. “Frank! My boy!” He charged down the bank and threw himself on his knees at his son’s side. “Son! Will you hold your tongue, Thunder!” he shouted at the dog. “You’ll bring your mistress down on us. Is he dead? Ralph, take that dog to the house.”
    â€œHe’s not dead,” said Mr. Thorpe. And indeed Francis’s eyes were opening, and it was plain he knew us, though there was a sick misery on his face. “Have you any pain, nephew?” said his uncle in a somewhat dry tone.
    â€œWhere is your hurt, Frank?” asked John.
    â€œI’m not hurt,” muttered Francis. He stirred in John’s arms, and pulled himself up to sit erect. “I’m not hurt,” he repeated staunchly, leaning his head on his hand and looking deathly white. “There’s no call for all this pother. You might think nobody had ever been thrown from a horse before.”
    â€œWhat made you take Snowball from the stable?” demanded Mr. Ferrand, remembering this other grievance now that his son seemed safe.
    â€œI wanted to ride him,” returned Francis coolly. “John, help me to stand.”
    John put his arm round his cousin’s waist and heaved him up. Francis swayed a little but managed to keep his feet, and began to stumble up the bank.
    A shrill sound of voices now swept down on us, with the whining bark of the mastiff, who had drawn Mrs. Ferrand and her guests to the scene of Francis’s misfortune.
    â€œHere comes my sister,” said Mr. Thorpe, pulling down his mouth in a rueful grimace.
    And indeed I now understood the good sense of John’s command to keep the matter from his aunt. Such cries, such throwing up of hands, such flutterings, such threatenings to faint, as Mrs. Ferrand now treated us to, I never could have believed possible. The poor woman was almost distraught, for Francis was the thing she loved best in all the world, but she had no means of expressing any emotion save silly words and trivial actions.
    â€œLook at the blood on his new doublet!” she screamed, feverishly fingering her son’s collar and smoothing out his hair.
    â€œOh, be