It would be so easy to slip
down."
"Not for anything with four good legs and a fair allowance of sense,"
said her father. "Do you think you could make Bobs slip down?"
Norah laughed.
"Oh, Bobs is like a mountain goat when it comes to sure-footedness,"
she said. "You've said yourself, Daddy that it would hardly be possible
to THROW him down! But then, Bobs is Bobs, and he's seven years old,
and ever so sensible--not like that big four-year-old baby. So promise
me you'll be careful, Daddy."
"I will, little daughter." They were at the boundary fence now, and it
was time for Norah to turn back. "Hurry home--I don't quite like you
being so far afield by yourself."
"Oh, Bobs will look after me." Norah hugged her father so far as
Monarch would permit--Mr. Linton had got off to wrestle with a stiff
padlock on the seldom-used gate, and the black horse was pulling away,
impatient of the delay.
"I expect he will," said the father. "That pony is almost as great a
comfort to me as he is to you, I believe! Make haste home, all the
same." He stood still a moment to watch the little white-coated figure
and the handsome pony swinging across the plain at Bobs' long canter;
his face tender as few people ever saw it. Then he mounted the eager
Monarch, and rode off into the rough country that led to the ranges.
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