some sort of help must be at hand. Scrambling up the bank, she found a gap in the bushes, thrust her head through and began—
"If you please, will you tell me—oh!"
For the horse standing in the furrow, just unharnessed from the plow, was the big white Dobbin and the plowman was David Warren.
He came pushing through the hedge at once and, before a word was said, took the heavy parcel from her.
"You and Dick seem to be rather far from home," he observed cheerfully.
"Be careful, it's eggs!" she warned as he thrust the bundle under his arm.
"Dobbin and I were just going home," he said. "Wait until I can drive him around by the gate and he'll be proud to carry you. He's not much of a saddle horse. His back is more like a seat in a Pullman car."
He was quite right, for weary Betsey, once perched on the wide back, thought it the most luxurious spot on earth. The gentle old horse seemed entirely willing and, even when Dick came fluttering up to perch on one of the brass knobs of the heavy harness, he merely looked around with an expression of mild wonder to see what new sort of rider this might be. While they moved slowly up the lane, Elizabeth gave an account of the crow's misadventures.
