A trailing blackberry vine, running like a crimson vein close to the earth, caught my foot, and I stooped for a minute. When I looked up she was standing clear against the reflected light of the sunrise, where a low hill rose above the stretches of broomsedge. Her sorrel mare was beside her, licking contentedly at a bright branch of sassafras; and I saw that she had evidently dismounted but the moment before. As I approached, she fastened her riding skirt above her high boots, and kneeling down on the dusty roadside, lifted the mare's foot and examined it with searching and anxious eyes. Her three-cornered riding hat had slipped to her shoulders, where it was held by a broad black band of elastic, and I saw her charming head, with its wreath of plaits, defined against the golden cloud that hung above the thin stretch of pines. At my back the full sunrise broke, and when she turned toward me, her gaze was dazzled for a moment by the flood of light.
"Let me have a look," I said, as I reached her, "is the mare hurt?"
"She went lame a few minutes ago. There's a stone in her foot, but I can't get it out."
"Perhaps I can."
Rising from her knees, she yielded me her place, and then stood looking down on me while I removed the stone.
"She'll still limp, I fear, it was a bad one," I said as I finished.
Without replying, she turned from me and ran a few steps along the road, calling, "Come, Dolly," in a caressing voice. The mare followed with difficulty, flinching as she put her sore foot to the ground.
"See how it hurts her," she said, coming back to me. "I'll have to lead her slowly—there's no other way."
"Why not ride at a walk?"
She shook her head. "My feet are better than a lame horse. It's not more than two miles anyway."