The gallop had kindled in her for the moment the flame of her old ambition; but the desire had died down swiftly as it had risen.
Boy knew now that she no longer really wanted to ride the Grand National Winner. She wanted something else—fiercely.
Cautiously she peeped out of the window.
Mr. Silver, in that old green golf-jacket of his, that clung so finely to his clean shoulders, was prowling along the edge of the wood close to Ragamuffin's grave, peeping for early nests.
The girl remembered that it was St. Valentine's—the day birds mate.
She turned away.