"I have set my heart on him," was all Rose could say in answer to her
brother's protestations.
"Set your heart on him as much as you please," returned Edward, "so
long as you do not set your person on him."
"In England," ventured, the respectful Tredway, "young ladies
generally prefer a more trustworthy animal."
"Well, when we go to England," responded Rose, casting her arms around
the neck of her slandered steed, "we'll do as the English do--won't we
Flip, dear? In this country we'll have just a little of our own wild
way."
From this decision there was no appeal. The words were scarcely spoken
when there was a swift scamper of heels, a smothered sound, half
shriek, half laughter, from Rose's lips, a cloud of dust, and that was
all. Edward's alarm was changed to amusement as the pony, after its
first wild flight, settled down into a sort of dancing step, ambling,
pirouetting, curvetting, sidling, arching its wilful neck at one
moment, and rushing off at a rate that bade fair to break its rider's
at the next.
By fits and starts--a great many of them--they managed to make their
way to "Bellevue," where the lovely Helene, arrayed in the alluring
coolness of a white _neglige_, and with her braided locks drooping to
her waist, came down the walk to meet them.
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