"Marjorie is pining for a gallop, I know," said Beverly, laughing; "she is as wild about horses as you are, Grace, and trained a colt when she was nine."
"How jolly!" cried Grace; "you and I can have some fine rides together, Marjorie. I haven't had a girl to ride with since—" Grace did not finish her sentence, but Marjorie knew by her suddenly heightened color, and the glance she gave Beverly, that she was thinking of her cousin Barbara.
"I declare they've brought Nelly Gray for you to ride!" whispered Grace to Marjorie, as the two girls stood on the veranda, waiting to mount. "I didn't know any one rode her now."
"She's a beauty," said Marjorie, with an admiring glance at the handsome little chestnut mare, which was being led up to the door by a groom.
"Oh, she's a love! She was Babs's pony, and Babs loved her dearly. I remember she taught her to take sugar out of her pocket."
Nelly Gray certainly was "a love" and Marjorie enjoyed that ride as she had enjoyed few things since leaving her Western home. It was a beautiful afternoon, and Nelly herself appeared to enjoy it almost as much as her rider. They took the longest way round to the Patterson home, and when they had left their friends, Beverly proposed that they should ride a few miles farther, and come home by a different road.
"I think I could ride all night without getting tired," laughed Marjorie. "This is an adorable pony."
"She was my sister's pony," said Beverly.
"Yes, I know, your cousin told me. It was awfully good of you and your mother to let me ride her."
Beverly said nothing, and they rode on for a few moments in silence, both young faces unusually grave. Marjorie was the first to speak.