At the State Fair grounds Mrs. Owen drove in, explaining that she wanted to see what they were doing to the track.  Sylvia noticed that the employees they passed grinned at Mrs. Owen as though she were a familiar acquaintance, and the superintendent came up and discussed horses and the track changes with Mrs. Owen in a strange vocabulary.  He listened respectfully to what Mrs. Owen said and was impressed, Sylvia thought, by her opinions.  She referred to other tracks at Lexington and Louisville as though they were, of course, something that everybody knew about.  The sun was hot, but Mrs. Owen did not seem to mind the heat a particle.  The superintendent looked the sorrels over carefully; they had taken no end of ribbons at fairs and horse shows.  Here was a team, Mrs. Owen announced, that she was not afraid to show in Madison Square Garden against any competitors in its class; and the superintendent admitted that the Estabrooks were a fine stock.  He nodded and kept repeating “You’re right,” or “you’re mighty right,” to everything the old lady said.  It seemed to Sylvia that nobody would be likely to question or gainsay any opinions Mrs. Owen might advance on the subject of horses.  She glanced over her shoulder as they were driving back toward the gate and saw the superintendent looking after them.

“He’s watching the team, ain’t he, Sylvia?  I thought I’d touch up his envy a little.  That man,” continued Mrs. Owen, “really knows a horse from an elephant.  He’s been trying to buy this team; but he hasn’t bid up high enough yet.  It tickles me to think that some of those rich fellows down in New York will pay me a good price when I send ’em down there to the show.  They need working; you can’t do much with horses in town; the asphalt plays smash with their feet.  There’s a good stretch of pike out here and I’ll show you what this team can do.”

This promised demonstration was the least bit terrifying to Sylvia.  Her knowledge of horses was the slightest, and in reading of horse races she had not imagined that there could be such a thrill in speeding along a stretch of good road behind a pair of registered roadsters, the flower of the Estabrook stock, driven by so intrepid and skillful a whip as Mrs. Sally Owen.

“I guess that mile would worry the boys some,” observed Mrs. Owen with satisfaction as she brought the team to a walk.

This was wholly cryptic to Sylvia, but she was glad that Mrs. Owen was not disappointed.  As they loitered in a long shady lane Mrs. Owen made it possible for Sylvia to talk of herself.  Sally Owen was a wise woman, who was considered a little rough and peculiar by some of her townspeople, chiefly those later comers who did not understand the conditions of life that had made such a character possible; but none had ever questioned her kindness of heart.  And in spite of her frank, direct way of speech she was not deficient in tact.  Sally Owen had an active curiosity, but it was of the healthy sort that wastes