the horse and gig, and driven off; that I could arouse nobody, and should return soon."
"But you'll consider, ma'am, that we couldn't see that till it got daylight."
"True," she said, and though vexed at first she had too much sense to blame them long or seriously for a devotion to her that was as valuable as it was rare. She added with a very pretty grace, "Well, I really thank you heartily for taking all this trouble; but I wish you had borrowed anybody's horses but Mr. Boldwood's."
"Dainty is lame, miss," said Coggan. "Can ye go on?"
"It was only a stone in her shoe. I dismounted and pulled it out a hundred yards back. I can manage very well, thank you. I shall be in Bath by daylight. Will you now return, please?"
She turned her head—the gateman's candle shimmering upon her quick, clear eyes as she did so—passed through the gate, and was soon wrapped in the embowering shades of mysterious summer boughs. Coggan and Gabriel put about their horses, and, fanned by the velvety air of this July night, retraced the road by which they had come.
"A strange vagary, this of hers, isn't it, Oak?" said Coggan, curiously.
