violent exertion. Fanny herself was not out of breath, but the colour did not come back to her sunburnt cheeks at once, and her hand was hardly steady yet. She did not laugh with Lawrence, nor even smile, but she looked long into his eyes.
"I may not mention it, but I shan't forget it," she said slowly.
"It's one to me, isn't it?" asked Lawrence, who, in reality, was by far the cooler and more collected of the two.
"How do you mean?" enquired Fanny, knitting her brows half angrily.
"One to me—in our game, you know," said the young fellow. "The game we agreed to play, yesterday."
"Yes—it's one to you. By the bye—you're not hurt anywhere, are you?"
She looked him over, as she had looked over her mare, with the same critical glance. His clothes were a little torn, here and there, being but light summer things, and his hat had disappeared, but it was tolerably clear that he was in no way injured.
