"If he was mine I'd give him whip a-plenty--till he learned
better," drawled Pete Dickerson, finally.

"Don't you ever dare touch him with the whip again!" cried the
girl, stamping her foot. "He will not stand it. You were
told---"

"Aw, well," said the fellow, "'I didn't think he was going to cut
up as bad as that. These Western horses ain't more'n half broke,
anyway."

"I think he is perfectly safe for you to ride now, Miss Bronson,"
said Hiram, quietly. "I'll give you a hand up. But walk him
home, please."

He had tightened the cinches again. Lettie put her tiny booted
foot in his hand (she wore a very pretty dark green habit) and
with perfect ease the young farmer lifted her into the saddle.

"Good-bye--and thank you again!" she said, softly, giving him her
free hand just as the horse started.

"Say! you're the fellow who's going to live at Atterson's place?"
observed Pete. "I'll see you later," and he waved his hand
airily as he rode off.

"So that's Pete Dickerson, is it?" ruminated Hiram, as he watched
the horses out of sight. "Well, if his father, Sam, is anything
like him, we certainly have got a sweet pair of neighbors!"