In the morning I drove down to the station, Euphemia by my side. She drove back, and old John came up and attended to the horse. This he was to do, for the present, for a small stipend. In the afternoon Euphemia came down after me. How I enjoyed those rides! Before this I had thought it ever so much more pleasant and healthful to walk to and from the station than to ride, but then I did not own a horse. At night I attended to everything, Euphemia generally following me about the stable with a lantern. When the days grew longer we would have delightful rides after dinner, and even now we planned to have early breakfasts, and go to the station by the longest possible way.
One day in the following spring, I was riding home from the station with Euphemia—we seldom took pleasure-drives now, we were so busy on the place—and as we reached the house I heard the dog barking savagely. He was loose in the little orchard by the side of the house. As I drove in, Pomona came running to the carriage.
"Man up the tree!" she shouted.
I helped Euphemia out, left the horse standing by the door, and ran to the dog, followed by my wife and Pomona. Sure enough, there was a man up the tree, and Lord Edward was doing his best to get at him, springing wildly at the tree and fairly shaking with rage. I looked up at the man. He was a thoroughbred tramp, burly, dirty, generally unkempt; but, unlike most tramps, he looked very much frightened. His position on a high crotch of an apple-tree was not altogether comfortable, and although, for the present, it was safe, the fellow seemed to have a wavering faith in the strength of apple-tree branches, and the moment he saw me he
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