“Didn’t think I had a hawss?” she said, and laughed.  “I’d die without a hawss!  Why, they say, here in the mountains, that I’m a good rider.  I’ve raced all the boys and beat ’em on my Little Hawss.”

She petted the affectionate, uncouth little beast and fed him slowly, lovingly.  “Little Hawss, before he hurt his hoof, was sure-footed as a deer.  Didn’t have to be afraid to run him anywhere, on any kind of road at any time of day or night,” said she.  “Never stumbled, never missed the way, and, while he don’t look much—­he never did—­he could just carry me to suit me!  But—­well, I don’t know as he will ever carry me again!”

Layson, himself a great horse lover, went up to the shaggy little beast and petted him.  The pony knew a friend instinctively and rubbed his nose against the rough sleeve of his jacket while he munched the turnip.

Madge stooped and lifted the poor beast’s crippled foot.

“Looks bad, don’t it?” she said anxiously, asking Frank’s opinion as an expert.

He looked the bad foot over carefully and shook his head.

“Madge, I am afraid it does,” said he.  “But wait until the Colonel comes.  He’ll tell you what to do.  No man knows horses better than the Colonel does.

“I’ve never told you of my horse, have I?” he asked.

“Why, no; you got one, too?”

He drew a long breath of enthusiasm at the mere thought of his greatest treasure.  “Such a mare,” said he, “as rarely has been seen, even in Kentucky.  She’s famous now and going to be more so.  She’s the very apple of my eye.”

The girl looked at him wide-eyed with a fascinated interest.  “What color is she?”

“Black as night.”

“And gentle?”

“Ah, gentle as a dove with friends; but she’s not gentle if she happens to dislike a man or woman!  Why, if she hates you, keep away from her.  She’ll side-step with a cunning that would fool the wisest so’s to get a chance for a left-handed kick; she’ll bite; she’ll strike with her forefeet the way a human fighter would.”

“Oh!” said the girl.  “Ain’t it a pity she’s so ugly?”

“I said she’s gentle with her friends.  She’d no more kick at me than I would kick at her.  She knows it.  She’s intelligent beyond most horseflesh.”

“Has she ever won in races?”

“She’s won in small events, and great things are expected of her by more folk than I when she gets going on the larger tracks.  I’m counting on her for good work this year, after I go home again.”

“Ah,” sighed the girl, carried quite away by his excited talk about his favorite, “how I’d love to see her run!”

“It’s poetry,” he granted; “the true poetry of motion.”

“And this Cunnel—­Cunnel—­”

“Colonel Doolittle?”

“Uh-huh.  Will he help me, do you s’pose, to get my Little Hawss cured of his lameness?”

“You may count on that.”