It was headed Morrisville, and was signed, "W. D. Van Voast."
That same day Blister was taken to a big, airy, private room with two nurses in attendance.
For a time it seemed hopeless. And then the fates decided to spare that valiant whimsical spirit and Death drew slowly back. The stallion had been unshod, and to this and the semi-darkness Blister owed his life.
I had met the girl frequently at the hospital and at last they told us we could see Blister for a moment the next day. Ten o'clock was the time set and as we sat in the visitor's room together, waiting, she seemed worried.
"You should be more cheerful," I said. "The danger is past, or we would not be allowed to see him."
"It isn't that," she replied. "I used to like horses. Now every horse I see scares me to death." Then she hesitated and looked at me timidly.
"Well," I encouraged, "that's natural, what of it?"
"I've been thinking—" she said slowly, "every girl should like what her husb—" she stopped and blushed till she looked like a rose in confusion.
"Oh, I see what you mean," I said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Since you care for Blister, you feel that you should also be interested in his profession."
"That's it! You say things just right!" she exclaimed gratefully.