It was on her ninth birthday that, at the conclusion of the oft-told tale, she put a solemn question:
"Monkey Brand!"
"Yes, Minie."
"Do-you-think-I-could-win-with-the National?"
"No sayin' but you might, Min."
The child's eyes became steel. She set her lips, and nodded her flaxen head with fierce determination.
She never recurred to the matter, or mentioned it to others. But from that time forth to ride the National winner became her secret ambition, dwelt upon by day, dreamed over by night, her constant companion in the saddle, nursed secretly in the heart of her heart, and growing always as she grew.
Certainly she was a Centaur if ever child was.
To the girl indeed her pony was like a dog. She groomed him, fed him, took him to be shod, and scampered over the wide-strewn Downs on him, sometimes bare-backed, sometimes on a numnah, hopping on and off him light as a bird and active as a kitten.
Mrs. Woodburn let the child go largely her own way.