“Well, don’t get overheated,” charged Mrs. Selden as she watched the slim little figure return to her place at the rail.
A pale, thin, dark-haired, dark-eyed little person was Joanne, possessed of an exuberance of spirit and an enthusiasm which often outran her strength, so that her grandmother was continually curbing the excess of energy.
Presently she returned from her point of lookout to say: “I’m going to hunt up Grad. He can find out whose is the pony.”
“Don’t get into mischief,” warned Mrs. Selden, picking up the book lying open in her lap.
“I won’t,” returned Joanne dashing off.
She met her grandfather on the stairway. He had an open paper in his hand, and looked a little troubled although there was a smile hovering about his lips. “Well, Pickings,” he began—one of his names for Joanne was Slim Pickings, shortened to Pickings—“where are you bound?”
“Just going to hunt you up, Grad,” answered Joanne. “I want you to find out who that darling pony belongs to.”
Her grandfather puckered up his lips in a whimsical way. “I don’t believe any one can tell you better than I can.”
“Oh, but why do you say that? Please tell me.”
Her grandfather made no direct answer, but asked, “Where is your grandmother?”