The gate-posts reached, Virginia was resolved upon one thing! She could not ride Napoleon! She would ride to the village stable and see if a change were possible. She turned Napoleon’s heavy head, and rode on, wondering what Donald would say if he could see her steed, and greatly hoping that the village stable contained some improvement.
Mr. Hanly, who had driven down with the mail-carrier just ahead of her, met her at the stable door.
“Anything the trouble, miss?”
Virginia for the moment ignored his question.
“Mr. Hanly, how old is Napoleon?”
Mr. Hanly calculated. “About eighteen, miss.”
“Eighteen!” cried Virginia. “Then I don’t wonder! Why, Mr. Hanly, he can’t go at all. He hasn’t a gait to his name! Besides, he wheezes terribly. Has he the asthma?”
Mr. Hanly explained that for years Napoleon had been afflicted with a chronic cold; but that he had been in his day a good saddle-horse, and safe.
“Oh, he’s perfectly safe, Mr. Hanly! He’s too safe! But, you see, I’ve ridden all my life, and I can’t ride him. I really can’t! Haven’t you something else?”
Mr. Hanly considered. Yes, he had a saddle-horse belonging to a Hillcrest gentleman, who was away at present, but who had left word that his horse might be exercised. Still, he would hardly venture to saddle him for Virginia. He was safe enough, but inclined to take the bit in his teeth. No, he would not dare to allow her to have him. Still, she might look at him if she liked.