"Or mother," she said.
"Your mother doesn't know much about a horse," said the girl slowly.
"She knows about their souls," cried Elsie triumphantly.
"She can't if they haven't got them," retorted Boy, with the brutal logic that distinguished her.
Boy Woodburn's room in the loft was characteristic of its owner.
Mr. Haggard said it was full of light and little else.
It was the room of a boy, not of a girl; of a soldier, and not an artist.
The girl in truth had the limitations of her qualities. She was so near to Nature that she had no need for Art, and no understanding of it.
The room knew neither carpet, curtain, nor blind. The sun, the wind, and not seldom the rain and snow were free of it. A small collapsible camp-bed, a copper basin and jug, an old chest, a corner cupboard—these constituted the furniture. The walls were whitewashed. Three of them knew no pictures. On one was her hunting-crop, a cutting-whip, and a pair of spurs; beneath them a boot-jack and three pairs of soft riding-boots in various stages of wear. In the corner stood a tandem-whip.