She might close the doors and lock them—­to no purpose.

She was angry, excited, not entirely displeased.

The change wrought in her swiftly.  At least she had the sense that she was embarking on a great adventure; and her romantic spirit answered to the appeal.

She became quieter and passed much time in her room alone.

Mr. Silver kept knocking at the door in the loft which he had never entered; but she refused to open to him.

To revenge herself she practised small brutalities upon him, which had no effect.  He just withdrew and came again next day with his big-dog smile, quiet and persistent as a tide.  Shy he was, and singularly pertinacious.

Then his mother died.

That seemed to Boy unfair; but as she reasoned it out he could hardly be held responsible.

They knew all about it at Putnam’s, because there was a paragraph in the paper about Brazil Silver’s widow.

The young man buried his mother on Friday, and on Saturday came down to Putnam’s for his usual week-end.

Boy asked her mother if he had spoken to her about his trouble.

“No,” said Mrs. Woodburn.

“Then he shall to me,” said the girl, with determination.

He should not bottle up his grief.  That would be bad for him.  The mother in the girl was emerging from the tom-boy very fast.

On Sunday evening she took him for a ride, and had her way, without a struggle.

As they breasted the hill together, the young man told her all at some length.

“Was she much to you?” asked the girl keenly.

Her own mother was all the world to her.

He shook his head.

“Oh! that’s all right,” replied the girl, relieved and yet resentful, “if you didn’t care.”

“In some ways I’m glad for her sake,” continued the young man.  “She was always unhappy.  You see she was ambitious.  One of the disappointments of her life was that my father wouldn’t take a peerage.”

“Can’t you be happy and ambitious?” asked Boy, peeping at him in the wary way he loved.

Jim Silver laughed and flicked his whip.

“I doubt it,” he said.

“Aren’t you ambitious?” she inquired.

He laughed his deep, tremendous laughter, turning on her the face she so rejoiced in.

“I’ve told you my one ambition.”

“What’s that?”

“To breed a National winner.”

That brought them back to their favourite subject—­Four-Pound-the-Second and his future.

* * * * *

The foal kept the girl busy, for the old mare died, and Boy had to bring up the little creature by hand.  She didn’t mind that, for the summer is the slack season in the jumping world.  Moreover, trouble taken for helpless young things was never anything but a delight to her.  And fortune favoured her.  For the Queen of Sheba, one of her nanny-goats, had lost her kids, and the milk was therefore available for the foal.