"Very important day today, did you know, Jake?" The squire was waggish. Jake chortled; he looked as if he was going to burst with suppressed laughter.

"Aye, sir, I do know what day it be!”

"Very important indeed. Now, Jake, lead the way, man! Stop standing there like a plaguey donkey, and lead the way.”

They went into one of the stables, and there already saddled up was a smallish mare, strawberry roan in colour. She was a lovely little creature, spirited and full of personality, and as they came in, her ears pricked and she whinnied.

"Well, there she is! And a nice little thing at that, eh, Jake?”

"Aye, sir... a pretty little thing, and no mistake!”

"And what do you say, Mistress Carolan?”

"She is beautiful," said Carolan, a sudden possibility occurring to her which could not, simply could not, be true. She could not bear the suspense, so she said: "Whose is she?" The squire laughed.

"Well, Jake," he said, 'is it your birthday today, Jake?”

"No, master, bain't my birthday.”

"Well, it bain't my birthday either!" The squire slapped his thigh.

"Do you mean ..." said Carolan, looking at him very direct.

"Do you mean... she's mine?”

"That's about it," said the squire.

"A birthday present?”

"Well, as Jake says, it bain't his birthday, and it bain't mine!”

"Oh!" cried Carolan.

"Oh!”

And when she looked up, the squire's eyes were swimming with tears. She could see the red in them behind the tears.

"Thank you!" she said in a small voice.

"Oh, thank you." Then, because she was so happy, she forgot to be afraid; she forgot everything but that the strawberry roan was hers no more ponies for her! Charles had a horse; Margaret had a pony; and she, Carolan, had this lovely strawberry roan. She could hardly believe it. She leaped high in the air, threw aside that restraint she had always worn in the presence of the squire, and said: "I wanted a pony! I wanted a pony... I didn't think of a horse.”

The squire said briskly: "Not much good having a horse, if you cannot ride it. Think you can?”

"Ride it!" screamed Carolan.

"Well, let us see.”

It was strange to be riding alongside the squire. Always before, she had been out with one of the grooms; usually with Charles and Margaret too. And perhaps it was because she had ridden with Charles in those early days that she had learned to ride so quickly, and sat her horse so well and with such confidence. In the early days when she had been a little frightened, Charles used to whip up his horse to a furious gallop and in a little while he would have her mount and Margaret's galloping wildly after him. Charles thought it good fun to see Carolan, white-faced, clinging to her saddle.

The squire watched her as she rode beside him; the sight of her straight little back delighted him. A good little horsewoman! Charles was good on a horse, and fearless enough, but he did not really like Charles. How pleased with the mare the child had been! The squire did not know when he had enjoyed anything so much. She had not expected a present from him either. There was a rare smile on the squire's face; it was pleasant to look into the future. A daughter to dote on her old father. He pictured them, riding together through his estate. Why should they not be the best of companions? The squire and his daughter a good squire now. because he had no longer a roving eye for every village slut; he had eyes only for his daughter who was growing into a young woman more beautiful than any of them.

He broke into a canter, and then into a gallop. Carolan kept beside him, her red hair flying out behind; fine she looked, sitting her strawberry roan with distinction. Dammed, thought the squire, if I don't take her along to the hunt with me! Why not? She can sit a horse with the best.

"Come on, Carrie girl," he shouted.

"Why are you lagging behind?" And he laughed inwardly to see her spurt forward, her little chin set and determined.

Proud of her, he was. He wanted to show her off. A pity there was no meet today. Like to see her there among the pink coats. But not those disreputable cast-offs of Margaret's. She should have a new riding habit; she should be grateful to him. He would say: "Come on, Carrie girl, what about a kiss for your old father?" When she was little more than a baby she had called him The Squire; now she called him nothing.

She had to begin calling him Father; she had to think of him as her father. If anybody let her know he was not her father, there was going to be the devil to pay. After all, suppose he was her father; there was such a thing as a seven months child! She had been a little thing when she was born; suppose she had been born prematurely. Not impossible. How he wanted to believe that. The squire... and his daughter... The parsonage was down this road along which they were trotting. Why not call on the parson and "Mrs. Parson"? Be a good start. Let people know that he looked on Carolan as his daughter. He went riding with her on her birthday; he had given her a horse. Charles had had a horse on his ninth birthday, and Margaret a pony.

"Oh!" said Carolan, when he drew up.

"Are we going to see Everard?”

He had not thought of the boy of course. He was thinking chiefly of the parson's wife; old Orland did not count for much.

The important thing was that Mrs. Orland should receive them and talk about the visit.

He signed curtly to her to dismount, and she did so neatly, he noticed with pleasure. They made fast their horses to the gate posts.

Mrs. Orland suppressed her surprise at the call.

"Good morning. Squire. This is an unexpected pleasure!”

He was bubbling over with good spirits.

"As long as it is a pleasure, does it matter that it is unexpected?" he asked archly.

Mrs. Orland tittered sharply.

"We were out riding," said the squire, 'and as we were passing ... well, Carrie and I did not feel we could pass old friends without calling in to say how do you do.”

"Of course not. Of course not. You will drink a glass of my cowslip wine, Squire?”

Cowslip wine! Elderberry wine! These old ladies! Champagne he would have preferred in his present mood.

"Nothing would delight me more!" he said, and he let his rather bloodshot eyes roam over her. Skinny, was his verdict. A proper parson's wife. Poor Orland! He reckoned he did not have much of a time with her. She flushed now at the boldness of his stare. Inwardly he chortled. These old women! Full of pretence. They thought they hated the way he looked at them because it was lechery; what they really hated was the fact that they had such skinny unattractive bodies. If they had something worth offering, they would be all a-simpering like any pot-house trollop.

But he had forgotten his new role; he was a father today, not a hunter of women.

"It is the little girl's birthday," he said, as they all sat drinking the cowslip wine.

"I know that," said Mrs. Orland, smiling.

"Carolan, my dear, if you will go into the library you will find a parcel with your name on it. You may open it.”

"Thank you, Mrs. Orland.”

"Now run and get it.”

Everard came into the library just as she found the parcel.

"I heard your voice," he said.

Her eyes were dancing, her cheeks red as berries, her hair glinting like the bronze ornaments on the mantelpiece.

"What has happened?" asked Everard.

"It is my birthday. The squire has given me a horse ... all for myself. And now ... Mrs. Orland has said there is a parcel here for me... I have it." On the brown paper was written "For Caro-Ian on her birthday from Sophia, Edward and Everard Orland'.

Everard came over to look. He had not known it was Carolan's birthday; he did not know what was in the parcel. Until this moment he had not been very interested in Carolan. She was just a little girl who was shamefully bullied by her half-brother whom Everard disliked intensely.

Inside the parcel was a cedarwood box.

"Oh ..." cried Carolan.

"What a lovely box! Oh, Everard, isn't it lovely to have a birthday!”

She leaped up suddenly and, putting her arms round his neck, kissed him.

Everard said: "Here... I say ... I soy!" But he was blushing, perhaps because she had kissed him, perhaps because he had known nothing of the cedarwood box.

"It is lovely ... lovely of you, Everard, to remember my birthday.”

He was filled with shame; heartily he wished that he had remembered. He was going to explain, but that would be tantamount to saying his mother had told a lie. He was full of chivalry; he could not expose his mother's deceit, any more than he could allow that beast Charles to bully his little half-sister.

"I must go to thank your mother," she said, and together they went back to the drawing-room. The squire was sprawling on the sofa, his great legs apart.

"Ha, ha! Here is the heroine of the day!" Carolan was hugging the cedarwood box.

"Thank you, Mrs. Orland. It is a beautiful box! May I go and thank Mr. Orland?”

"He is writing his sermon, dear; I should not disturb him. I will convey your thanks to him.”

"Let me see the box," said the squire, and Carolan went over to him.

She listened to his breath coming noisily through his great nostrils.

The hairs in his nostrils fascinated her; they had frightened her when she was younger.

"Ha! A nice little box, eh, daughter?" He thought with satisfaction cheap though! Picked up from some plaguey pedlar! And he laughed to think of the strawberry roan, impatiently stamping her foot outside.