Old Simon did not move to interfere—the hoof required no special attention. Almost every horse-hoof in the area was known to him.

When Richard took up the foot to prepare it for the reception of its new armour, again the mare was fidgety, and again the lady distracted her attention, comforting and soothing her while Richard trimmed the hoof a little.

“I say, my man,” called the young heir who had been engaged with Simon, “mind what you’re about there with your trimming! I don’t want that mare lamed. She’s much too good for apprentice hands to learn on, Simon!”

“Keep your mind easy, Mr. Lestrange,” answered the blacksmith. “That lad’s no mere apprentice. He knows what he’s about as well as I do myself!”

“He’s young!”

“Perhaps younger than you think. But he knows his work.”

The girl was caressing the great creature, and as Richard finished driving his second nail, the nervous animal gave her foot a jerk, and the point of the nail, through the hoof and projecting a little out the side, tore his hand so that the blood burst out in a sudden rivulet.

“Hey! that doesn’t look much like proper shoeing!” cried the young man. “I hope to goodness that’s yours and not the mare’s blood.”

“She’s all right,” answered Richard, rearranging the animal’s foot.

Simon sprang forward and took the hoof from his grandson. “I’ll finish, Dick!”

“It was my fault,” said the sweetest voice from under the mare. “My feather must have tickled her nose.”

She caught a glimpse of the bloody hand and turned momentarily white.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I hope you’re not badly hurt, Richard.”

Nothing seemed to escape her—she had already learned his name!

“It’s not worth being sorry about, miss,” returned Richard with a laugh. “The mare meant no harm.”

“That I’m sure she didn’t—poor Miss Brown,” answered the girl, patting the mare’s neck. “But I wish it had been my hand instead.”

“God forbid!” cried Richard. “That would have been a calamity!”

“Hardly so great a one. My hand isn’t of much use. Yours can shoe a horse!”

“Yours would have been spoiled. Mine will mend and shoe just as well as before,” said Richard.

It did not occur to the lady that the youth spoke better than might have been expected of a country blacksmith. She was one of the select few that meet every person on the common ground of humanity, with no thought of station or rank. She affected nothing. She would have spoken the same way to prince or poet-laureate or blacksmith. Indeed, she treated old Betty, sir Wilton’s dairymaid, with equal respect as she showed Arthur Lestrange, sir Wilton’s heir. She was thus a great favourite. Everybody showed her favour, for she showed everybody grace.

The old smith was finishing the shoeing and the mare, well used to him, stood perfectly quiet. Richard, a little annoyed, had withdrawn and, hardly thinking about what he was doing, had taken a rod of iron, thrust it into the fire, and begun to blow. The little lady approached him softly.