The young horse submitted patiently to her caresses, though her hair, looking like dry, crisp hay, smelled mortally of smoke; he saw it was a comfort to her woman-heart to hang about his neck and murmur softly in his ear:
“True, dear little horse,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter about Ceph.”
“There it is again,” thought True. “Nobody cares whether poor old Ceph is burnt up or not.”
And nobody did, as long as Gipsey and he were saved.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Once a common practice among the negroes of the South.
CHAPTER IV.
JUSTIN MORGAN.
In True’s third year, Master Whitman came one morning, betimes, to brush him down before taking him out for his usual exercise—so the “pony” thought. But after a while he was convinced that his master called him names more loving and tender than usual and that his voice had a sorrowful ring.
Gipsey and True knew that hard times had come knocking at the farm-gate and that their kind master was in debt because his crops had failed the year before. They knew, too, if the worst came to the worst they might have to be sold to pay these debts.