“AWAY THEY WENT, KNEE-DEEP IN DRY SILVERY GRASSES”
She saw it at the same moment, touched her mare with spurred heels, and lifted her clean over with a grace that set Burleson’s nerves thrilling.
He followed, taking the water-jump without effort; and after a second’s hesitation ventured to praise her horse.
“Yes,” she said, indifferently, “The Witch is a good mare.” After a silence, “My father desires to sell her.”
“I know a dozen men who would jump at the chance,” said the young fellow. “But”—he hesitated—“it is a shame to sell such a mare—”
The girl colored. “My father will never ride again,” she said, quietly. “We should be very glad to sell her.”
“But—the mare suits you so perfectly—”
She turned her head and looked at him gravely. “You must be aware, Mr. Burleson, that it is not choice with us,” she said. There was nothing of bitterness in her voice; she leaned forward, patting the mare’s chestnut neck for a moment, then swung back, sitting straight as a cavalryman in her saddle. “Of course,” she said, smiling for the first time, “it will break my heart to sell The Witch, but”—she patted the mare again—“the mare won’t grieve; it takes a dog to do that; but horses—well, I know horses enough to know that even The Witch won’t grieve.”