"I'm inquiring about that little pony," said grandpa. "Is he for sale?"
"No, I don't sell him. He belonged to my little sister. I don't take a thousand dollars for him. My little sister's horse he was."
"Oh," Eleanor leaned forward. "Was it Zula's pony? Where is Zula?"
The young man looked down. "She has died this winter."
"Oh!" Eleanor drew back. "I wanted to see her. Are you Marco, her brother?"
"Her brother," he replied. "Where have you known my little sister?"
"I saw her here last fall. Don't you remember? And the little colored girl you took to the hospital? She is well now. You were very kind to Bubbles. Won't you have these flowers? I brought them to Zula." And she held out the yellow daffodils.
The young man took them. "Thank you. I am glad to see you. I would like to sell you the pony if I could sell him to any one, but I cannot. He was Zula's, but I have another one here as good. I sell him for one hundred twenty-five dollars." He turned to Mr. Dallas.
"That is a pretty good price, but let us see him," said grandpa.
"I am so sorry that Zula is not here," said Eleanor softly, "but, you know, she is up in heaven and she must be very happy."