"Isn't it just delightful," said Euphemia, "that we haven't any
man? If we had a man he would take the horse at the door, and we
should be deprived of all this. It wouldn't be half like owning a
horse."
In the morning I drove down to the station, Euphemia by my side.
She drove back and Old John came up and attended to the horse.
This he was to do, for the present, for a small stipend. In the
afternoon Euphemia came down after me. How I enjoyed those rides!
Before this I had thought it ever so much more pleasant and
healthful to walk to and from the station than to ride, but then I
did not own a horse. At night I attended to everything, Euphemia
generally following me about the stable with a lantern. When the
days grew longer we would have delightful rides after dinner, and
even now we planned to have early breakfasts, and go to the station
by the longest possible way.
One day, in the following spring, I was riding home from the
station with Euphemia,--we seldom took pleasure-drives now, we were
so busy on the place,--and as we reached the house I heard the dog
barking savagely. He was loose in the little orchard by the side
of the house. As I drove in, Pomona came running to the carriage.
"Man up the tree!" she shouted.
I helped Euphemia out, left the horse standing by the door, and ran
to the dog, followed by my wife and Pomona. Sure enough, there was
a man up the tree, and Lord Edward was doing his best to get at
him, springing wildly at the tree and fairly shaking with rage.
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