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If I am here, perhaps Crossjay would like a ride in the afternoon." "Oh, yes," cried the boy; "out over Bournden, through Mewsey up to Closharn Beacon, and down on Aspenwell, where there's a common for racing. And ford the stream!" "An inducement for you," De Craye said to her. She smiled and squeezed the boy's hand. "We won't go without you, Crossjay."
They raced along Aspenwell Common to the ford; shallow, to the chagrin of young Crossjay, between whom and themselves they left a fitting space for his rapture in leading his pony to splash up and down, lord of the stream. Swiftness of motion so strikes the blood on the brain that our thoughts are lightnings, the heart is master of them.
Riding slack, horse and man, in the likeness of those two ajog homeward from the miry hunt, the horse pricked his cars, and Willoughby looked down from his road along the bills on the race headed by young Crossjay with a short start over Aspenwell Common to the ford. There was no mistaking who they were, though they were well-nigh a mile distant below.
In Aspenwell village she drew a letter from her bosom and called to Crossjay to post it. The boy sang out, "Miss Lucy Darleton! What a nice name!" Clara did not show that the name betrayed anything. She said to De Craye. "It proves he should not be here thinking of nice names." Her companion replied, "You may be right." He added, to avoid feeling too subservient: "Boys will."
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