They got home to the Patty-Pans cold and hungry, wholesomely tired for a good night's sleep. When they awakened weather-wise Gretta was proved a competent prophet, and the beautiful Sunday but what old people call "a weather breeder." A cold rain was falling, mingled with hail. It froze as it fell, and the stone paved sidewalks were as great a menace to human beings as was the asphalt upon which the poor horses were slipping and straining in a manner painful to see.
"Margery, you let me go down with Happie to-day," said Gretta. "I am surer-footed and stronger than you are. And we can get on without either Laura or Polly. Nobody will be out to-day who can stay in. It's fearful walking. Happiness and I will go down to the tea room; the rest of you stay here. Oh, there goes a horse!"
Gretta covered her eyes, shuddering. Her love for horses was a passion with her, and it was almost more than she could bear to see their suffering as they strove for a foothold on the wet or sleeted asphalt, falling to their death from the bullet that would end the pain of a broken leg, or, worse, when they strained into an injury not immediately fatal, but incurable.
"I don't see how you can live in New York!" she gasped, turning away from the window with a white face, as the latest victim was helped to his feet by feed bags placed under them.
"Are you ever homesick, Gretta?" asked Happie with a sudden suspicion.
"No, because you are all here, but, oh, wouldn't you rather be up in the mountains where the air is dry and clear than here, crowded up, in this wet wind, with horses ruined before your eyes?" cried Gretta.
"Poor Gretta! I believe you do miss your mountains!" said Margery gently.
"Home is home," said Gretta. "But not without you all," she added hastily.