“Horses seem to know more of some things than they really do, and know more of some other things than they seem to; how’s that for horse sense, Nathaniel Bacon Allison?”
Nat blinked, but shed no tears. Rodney blinked and his eyes were wet. The boy opened the gate and the colt followed him to the stable, where he was saddled and ridden to Monticello.
As Rodney left the manager of Mr. Jefferson’s estate he said: “I only ask that you say to Mr. Jefferson, I sell the colt with the understanding that I may buy him back if I ever get the money.”
“I’ll do it, an’ you won’t need it in writin’ so long as Mr. Jefferson lives.”
What a long, dusty, gloomy road was that over which the boy walked back to his home!
“What has become of Nat?” his mother asked, a few days later. “I haven’t seen him lately.”
“He was too valuable a horse for me to own and I sold him to Mr. Jefferson. I can have the privilege of buying him back,” and Rodney turned away, afraid to trust himself to say more.
The crops that fall were successful and the neighbours told the boy he would surely make a good farmer. He worked early and late and grew strong; whereas his mother, watching him with sad eyes, became weaker.
When Mrs. Allison was absorbed in thought the old coloured woman would stand looking with anxious face at her mistress. One day she said, “Missus, yo’ jes’ done git well. Dat’s no mo’n doin’ what’s right by Marse Rodney, ah reckon.”