Albert, very white, was sparring all round his adversary's head.
"Chukkered me, did ye?" he said. "Put 'em up then, or I'll spoil ye."
The offence was the unforgiveable in the Putnam stable, and the watching lads had every hope of a battle royal when a calm, deep voice stilled the storm.
"That'll do," it said.
The real Boy entered.
The dark blue of her dress showed off her fair colouring and hair.
She was nearly twenty-one now and spiritually a woman, if she still retained the slight, sword-like figure of her girlhood days. Her face was graver than of old and more quiet. The touch of almost aggressive resolution and defiance it once possessed had shaded off into something stiller and more impressive. There was less show of strength and more evidence of it. Her roots were deeper, and she was therefore less moved by passing winds. Something of her mother's calm had invaded her. She got her way just as of old, but she no longer had to battle for it now as then. Or if she had to battle, the fight was invisible, and the victory fought and won in the unseen deeps of her being.
"Who's been smoking here?" the girl asked immediately on entering the barn.
"Me, Miss," said Jerry.
Monkey Brand was fond of affirming that on the whole the lads told the truth to Miss Boy. But whether it was the girl's personality or her horsemanship that accounted for this departure from established rule it was hard to surmise.