3/15 "What a wench of six years old. Wilt have my crop and trounce thy Dad again!" He picked up the crop from the place where she had thrown it, and forthwith gave it in her hand. She took it, but was no more in the humour to beat him, and as she looked still frowning from him to the whip, the latter brought back to her mind the horse she had set out in search of. "Where is he ?" "Thy horse!" he echoed. "Which is thy horse then ?" "Rake is my horse," she answered--"the big black one. |