“Dear—is that the fear you meant that night?”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
“I cannot understand. Your uncle used to write what a fearless little horsewoman you were.”
“I know. Grandmother, I think I should like to tell you—I’ve never told anyone—perhaps, then, I sha’n’t remember it so.”
“Tell me, dear.”
“It’s—I—I saw one of the men—he had been thrown—and dragged—it was horrible! No one knew I saw him—that was last summer—I haven’t been on a horse since.”
“You should have told your uncle at once, dear; keeping it to yourself was the worst thing you could have done.”
“I couldn’t bear to speak of it—I thought I should forget. Then, one afternoon, I went out to mount Firefly—and I—couldn’t. Uncle Cliff used to wonder why I wasn’t riding; he asked me about it one night, and I just up and told him I was afraid. That was the time he said ‘afraid’ was an odd word for an Ashe to use.”
“Have you honestly tried to conquer this fear, dear?”
“I haven’t tried to ride since that first time—after I had seen—that. It wouldn’t be any use. I can’t ride, Grandmother. That’s why I couldn’t bear to stay on the ranch.”