“Keep it dark,” he said; “you'll be laughed at if you don't. My father won't like it.”
“Why must a man enjoy himself at the expense of joy?” answered Richard. “I pass no judgment upon your sport. I merely say I don't choose to kill birds. What men may think of me for it, is a matter of indifference to me. I think of them much as they think of a Frenchman or an Italian, who shoots larks and blackbirds and thrushes and nightingales: I don't see the great difference!”
They strolled into the stable. There stood Miss Brown, looking over the door of her box. She received Richard with glad recognition.
“How comes Miss Brown here?” he asked. “Where can her mistress be?”
“The mare's at home,” answered Arthur. “I bought her.”
“Oh!” said Richard, and going into the box, lifted her foot and looked at the shoe. Alas, Miss Brown had worn out many shoes since Barbara drove a nail in her hoof! Had there been one of hers there, he would have known it—by a pretty peculiarity in the turn of the point back into the hoof which she called her mark. The mare sniffed about his head in friendly fashion.
“She smells the smithy!” said Arthur to himself.—“Yes; your grandfather's work.” he remarked. “I should be sorry to see any other man shoe horse of mine!”
“So should I!” answered Richard. “—I wonder why Miss Wylder sold Miss Brown!” he said, after a pause.
“I am not so curious!” rejoined Arthur. “She sold her, and I bought her.”
Neither divined that the animal stood there a sacrifice to Barbara's love of Richard.