"What set you thinking about that, Pretty ?" he asked.
"We passed him back there, didn't we, father ?" "Sure enough, guess we did," said the Squire, and they trotted on over the moonlit road.
"Looks just like the back of that dapple-gray I had when you were a little girl, Pretty," said the Squire, pointing with his whip at the net-work of lights and shadows.
He never thought of any significance in the fact that for the two following days Lucina preferred riding in the morning in another direction, and on the third day preferred riding after sundown on the road to Dale.

He also thought nothing of it that they passed Jerome Edwards again, and that shortly afterwards Lucina professed herself tired of riding so fast, though it had not been fast for him, and reined her little white horse into a walk.

The sorrel plunged and jerked his head obstinately when the Squire tried to reduce his pace also.
"Please ride on, father," said Lucina; her voice sounded like a little silver flute through the Squire's bass whoas.
"And leave you?
I guess not.

Whoa, Dick; whoa, can't ye!" "Please, father, Dick frightens me when he does so." "Can't you ride a little faster, Pretty?
Whoa, I tell ye!" "In just a minute, father, I'll catch up with you.

Oh, father, please! Suppose Dick should frighten Fanny, and make her run, I could never hold her.