“Who says so?”

“Everyone.  You’re a plucky fine actor and a mighty pore ’orseman, Albert Edward,” continued the tormentor.

Albert was a lad of character.  He had sworn to his mistress that if he won the race he would henceforth drop the boy and don the man.  And the sign of his emancipation was to be that never again would he use his dukes except in self-defence.  Now in the hour of trial he was true to his word.

Happily the strain was relieved, for at the moment Boy, scenting trouble, came out into the yard.  Monkey Brand with her.

Albert approached her.

“Beg pardon, Miss, was it you or me won the National?” he asked.  “These ’ere genelmen say it was you.”

“It was neither,” replied the girl.  “It was Four-Pound-the-Second.  Come in with me, Albert.  I want to change his bandages.”

She reentered the stable.

Albert followed at a distance, slow and sullen.

Boy entered the loose-box, and Billy Bluff rose to greet her with a yawn.

The door of the loose-box closed.

The girl bent to her task.

A hand was laid upon her shoulder.

She looked up sharply.

Jim Silver was standing above her, and the door was shut.

“It’s you, is it?” she said.

He took her quivering life into his arms.

“Now,” she sighed.

She raised her lips, and he laid his own upon them.

“Again,” she said with closed eyes.

His own drank in her face.

“You’ve been a patient old man,” she whispered.

“It was worth it,” he answered.

“I’ll make it so,” she said.  “Please God!” she added with delightful inconsequence.  “I’m glad you didn’t bet.”

The great brown horse turned his head and breathed on them.

Boy disengaged, patting her hair.  “I’m glad you didn’t bet,” she repeated.

“We shall have enough to farm on without that,” he said.  “And to breed a few ’chasers.”

Her hand was moving up and down the horse’s smooth, hard neck.

“I don’t want to breed ’chasers,” she said.

He laughed softly.

“Don’t you?”

“No,” she said.  “I’m tired of it.  I’m like mother.  It’s all right when you’re quite young.  But it doesn’t last—­if you’ve got anything in you.  It’s froth.”

He nodded.

“You’re right,” he said.  “What shall we breed?”

“Shire horses,” the girl replied.  “Great, strong, useful creatures that’ll work all day and every day—­”

“Bar Sunday,” he said.  “Remember grand-pa, please.”

“—­without a fuss,” she continued, ignoring his impertinence, “shifting trucks, drawing the plough, and carrying the wheat, and come home tired of evenings with wet coats and healthy appetites.”

“My old love,” he said.  “You’re right, my dear, of course.  But he’s a beauty all the same.”