The Captain smiled.
“I shall be jealous of my charger,” he said, tenderly.
Morgan rubbed his muzzle on Mistress Dulaney’s sleeve and in the laces at her neck, thinking her soft Southern voice the sweetest he had ever heard, even more sweet than when she was a maid.
“Ah, dear husband, but for this horse I should be the most unhappy of women instead of the happiest! ’Twas he who won that race so many years ago and gave you to me. I have ever wanted to call him my own!”
“Then you may call him so now, sweet Wife. From to-day Morgan is yours.”
At last, at last! Oh, the years of waiting and longing. Oh, the weary hopelessness of some of them at the plow-among men who could not understand and did not try. At last! He arched his crest and pawed the earth with joy.
“I shall lend him to you sometimes.” She looked at her lord, archly lifting her sweet face to his as they stood very close together. At a soft, sweet sound Morgan showed more spirit.
“‘He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his strength; he goeth forth to meet the armed men,’” Mistress Dulaney quoted, mockingly, her hand resting on the horse’s face, her cheek against his.
Presently the Captain mounted, lighter by several pounds than was his wont, and Morgan glided off.
“Take good care of him, Little Horse,” were her parting words.