"Oh, bother take him and his horse and the race and everything. Are you hurt?" gasped
the deacon, jumping out, but mindful to keep the lines in his hand. "Are you hurt?" he
repeated, anxiously, though she looked anything but a hurt woman.
"If I am," she chirped, cheerily, "I'm not hurt half as bad as I would have been if the
squire had beat you, deacon. Now don't you worry about me. Let's hurry back to town so
the squire won't get another chance, with no place for me to jump."
And the deacon? Well, well, with the lines in the crook of his elbow the deacon held out
his arms to the widow and----. The sisters at the next meeting of the Sewing Society were
unanimously of the opinion that any woman who would risk her life like that for a
husband was mighty anxious.
