'He is our fun-maker.

He must always be well.

I owe to him some of my English.

You are his son?
you were for Sarkeld?
You will see him up at our Bella Vista.

Quick, let us run.' She put her pony to a canter up the brown path between the fir-trees, crying that she should take our breath; but we were tight runners, and I, though my heart beat wildly, was full of fire to reach the tower on the height; so when she slackened her pace, finding us close on her pony's hoofs, she laughed and called us brave boys.