"Oh, yes, there may be that; but you'll get ahfu wet, sir--"
"I'm going," said he, definitely; whereupon the pony was straightway
brought up to the door.
And here was Miss Georgie Lestrange, in a charming morning costume,
which the male pen may not adequately describe, and she held a small
packet in her hands.
"I told Honnor Cunyngham it was my turn," she said, with a kind of
bashful smile, as she handed the little present to him, "and she only
laughed--I wonder if she thinks she can command all the luck in
Ross-shire; has she got a monopoly of it? Well, Mr. Moore, they all say
you'll get fearfully wet; and that is a silk handkerchief you must put
round your neck; what would the English public say if you went back from
the Highlands with a hoarse throat!"
"I'm not thinking of the English public just at present," said he,
cheerfully. "I'm thinking of the stag that is wandering about somewhere
up in the hills; and I am certain your good wishes will get me a shot at
him. How kind of you to get up so early!--good-bye!"
This, it must be admitted, was a most hypocritical speech; for although,
as he rode away, he made a pretence of tying the pale pink neckerchief
round his throat, it was on the influence of Miss Cunyngham's lucky
sixpence--the pierced coin was secretly attached to his
watch-chain--that he relied.
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