Madelon paused a second as she went out, and gave a strange, scrutinizing glance at her.

“Why do you not wear your blue-silk quilted hood with the swan’s-down trimming?” said she.  “It becomes you, and it is warm over your ears.”

“Yes, I will,” said Dorothy, looking at her wonderingly.

Madelon went softly out of the house, and ran across and down the road to the tavern.  Dexter Beers, the landlord, was just going around the wide sweep of drive to the stable with a meal-sack over his shoulder.  No one else was in sight; it was so cold there were no loafers about.  Madelon ran after him, and overtook him before he reached the stable door.

“Can you let me take a horse?” said she, abruptly.

Dexter Beers looked slowly around at her with a quick roll of a black eye in a massive face.  He had an enormous bulk, which he moved about with painful sidewise motions.  His voice was husky.

“What d’ye want a horse for?” said he.

“I want it to put in Parson Fair’s sleigh.”

“What for?”

“To take Dorothy to ride.”

“Parson’s horse lame yet?”

Madelon nodded.

“Where’s yours?”

“I can’t have him.”

Dexter Beers still moved on with curious lateral twirls of his shoulders and heaves of his great chest, with its row of shining waistcoat buttons.

“Pooty cold day for a sleigh-ride,” he observed, with a great steam of breath.

“I’ll pay you well for the horse,” said Madelon, in a hard voice.  She followed him into the stable.  He heaved the meal-sack from his shoulder to the floor with a grunt.  Another man came forward with a peck measure in his hand.  He was young, with a frosty yellow mustache.  He had gone to school with Madelon and knew her well, but he looked at her with uncouth shyness without speaking.  Then he began unfastening the mouth of the sack.

Madelon stepped forward impatiently towards the horse-stalls.  There were the relay of coach-horses, great grays and bays, champing their feed, getting ready for their sure-footed rushes over the mountain roads when the coaches came in.  She passed them by with sharp glances.

A man whose face was purplish red with cold was out in the rear of the stable, rubbing down a restive bay with loud “whoas,” and now and then a stronger word and a hard twitch at the halter.  He looked curiously at Madelon as she walked up to one of the stalls.

“Better look out for them heels!” he called out, as she drew nearer.  She paid no heed, but went straight into the stall, untied the horse, and began to back him out.  “Hi, there!” the man shouted, and Dexter Beers and the young man came hurrying up.  “Better look out for that gal—­I believe she’s gone crazy!” he called out.  “I can’t leave this darned beast—­she’ll get kicked to death if she don’t look out.  That old white won’t stan’ a woman in the stall.  Whoa, there! whoa, darn ye!  Stan’ still!”