'Where would you keep her?' inquired his father casually, opening a letter. 'In the kitchen?'
'No, in the—in the barn! They used to keep a horse there—before we lived here! I—I could keep her in the barn!'
'M—m, barn? I’m afraid she wouldn’t recognize it.'
'But there’s a stall there! A nice stall! Couldn’t I have her?'
His father looked up again.
'What’s this? A prize contest? Oh, I see.' He smiled absently as he went on with his mail. 'Yes, it’s safe to say you can have her—if you can get her.'
Crosby’s face flushed slowly again, and his eyes looked very bright.
'If you can get her,' repeated his father, pushing his chair back and looking at his watch; 'but you can’t, Crosby. There isn’t a chance in a thousand that you could.' He put his watch in his pocket and looked at his wife. 'Well, I must go. Come on, old man. Better take your pony correspondence outside! Too good a day for the house.'
From the low porch-steps Crosby waved an absent good-bye, his eyes still on the pictured pony. As he tore away some yellow seals, a letter fell out, and he creased the big folder again and cautiously sat down on it so that it would not blow away. Then he spread the letter across his knees.
It was more than half an hour later that he looked up and drew a long breath of relief. It was the first really full-sized breath that he had taken since he began the letter—and he had just finished it. His eyes dwelt on the last sentences again, and as he pulled the folder from under him, they traveled back to the beginning.