Things went along that way for a week. Meanwhile, I was not so well as usual. I caught a cold, for the stalls were hot and the air in the street chilled me to the bones. And I coughed, and my throat got so sore that I quidded my feed and splashed the water instead of drinking. I think Missy saw how it was. For one day, as we were going along, I felt a drop of water fall upon my withers—then another, and another. The sun was shining, there were no clouds. I turned my head a little. It was Missy—in tears!
I was so unhappy that I snapped at the next horse that went by.
But that morning ended happily, at least for me. Rounding a bend, we came close to a drive. And there was Thunderbolt and his master. I was so excited that I interfered.
They seemed as pleased as I at the meeting. But—Missy did not. Missy was nervous—she telegraphed that down the reins.
“Miss Sanborn,” said Mr. England, half as if he were going to scold, “you’ve been neglecting to ride lately.”
“Oh, no,” declared Missy; “I ride. But possibly not so long as usual. You see, I’m—I’m very busy.”
“Doubling your painting lessons?”
“No—n—no.”
“Ah,” said Mr. England, watching her narrowly, I thought. That was all he said. Then Missy bowed, and we galloped away.
I had had no chance to gossip with Thunderbolt, for we were not permitted to stand close or to touch noses. But I did notice that he looked me over carefully—and then his upper lip curled like the jockeys on my saddle.