The house, neutral-tinted with years and respectability, stood well back from the river, to whose brink the smooth, green lawn swept in scarcely perceptible undulation.  The river here was broad, almost resembling an arm of the sea it was moving languidly to join.  There was no haste about it, and no fret of ever active current; as all large bodies should, it moved slowly, and the eye rested gratefully on the tranquil flow.  Across the water, apparently against the far horizon, a dense line of trees, fringing the further shore, rose tall and dark, outlined with picturesque distinctness against the soft, warm blue.  The surrounding country was flat, but relieved from monotony by a certain pastoral peacefulness, and a look of careless plenty which, with thrift, might have become abundance.  In the meadows the grass grew rich and riotous between the tall stacks of cured hay, and the fields of corn and tobacco gave vigorous promise of a noble harvest.  The water also teemed with life and a shiftless out-at-elbow energy.  Shabby looking fishing smacks, with dirty white wings, like birds too indolent to plume themselves, passed constantly, and flat-bottomed canoes, manned by good-humored negro oystermen, plied a lazy, thievish trade, with passing steamers.

Presently a gate slammed somewhere in the regions back of the house, and there was a sound of neighing and trampling.  Pocahontas leaned far out, shading her eyes with her hands, to watch the colts career wildly across the lawn, with manes and tails and capering legs tossed high in air, in the exuberance of equine spirits.  Following them sedately came a beautiful black mare, stepping high and daintily, as became a lady of distinction.  She was Kentucky born and bred, and had for sire none other than Goldenrod himself.  In answer to a coaxing whistle of invitation, she condescended to approach the window and accept sugar and caresses.  Pocahontas patted the glossy head and neck of the beauty, chattering soft nonsense while the little heap of sugar she had placed on the window-sill vanished.  Presently she laid an empty palm against the nose pushed in to her, and dealt it a gentle blow.

“That’s all, Phyllis; positively all this morning.  You would empty the sugar bowl if I’d let you.  No, take your nose away; it’s all gone; eleven great lumps have you had, and the feast of the gods is over.”

But Phyllis would not be convinced; she pushed her nose up over the window ledge, and whinnied softly.  As plainly as a horse can beg, she begged for more, but her mistress was obdurate.  Placing both hands behind her, she drew back into the room, laughing.

“Not another lump,” she called, “eleven are enough.  Greedy Phyllis, to beg for more when you know I’m in earnest.  Go away and play with the colts; you’ll get no more to-day.”

“You’ll never make Phyllis believe that, my dear,” remarked a tall, gray-haired lady, in a pretty muslin cap, who had entered unperceived.