“Oh,” replied the Major, “that is the little mare ‘Cassandra.’”
At the mention of the name the mistress inclined her ear instantly. “That’s singular,” continued the stranger. “What’s the significance, Major—or do you know?”
“Why, that’s the name the boys here at the track gave to her and by which she is now generally known. You see,” he continued, “her owner, who was greatly attached to her as a mere weanling, is now dead. Have you never seen her, sir?”
The stranger shook his head.
“Well, she’s a little marvel of beauty, sir, a perfect dream; milk-white from tip to tip and as trim and shapely as a gazelle.”
“Does she start this evening?” inquired the stranger.
“Townsend told me but a while ago that he had just heard she would not start.”
“I’m sorry,” replied the stranger, “but after your description of her, Major, I think I shall make a special trip to the stable to see her.”
“You knew her owner, did you not?” asked the major.
“I can’t recall him,” said the stranger, thoughtfully.