"I want it to put in Parson Fair's sleigh."

"What for?"

"To take Dorothy to ride."

"Parson's horse lame yet?"

Madelon nodded.

"Where's yours?"

"I can't have him."

Dexter Beers still moved on with curious lateral twirls of his
shoulders and heaves of his great chest, with its row of shining
waistcoat buttons.

"Pooty cold day for a sleigh-ride," he observed, with a great steam
of breath.

"I'll pay you well for the horse," said Madelon, in a hard voice. She
followed him into the stable. He heaved the meal-sack from his
shoulder to the floor with a grunt. Another man came forward with a
peck measure in his hand. He was young, with a frosty yellow
mustache. He had gone to school with Madelon and knew her well, but
he looked at her with uncouth shyness without speaking. Then he began
unfastening the mouth of the sack.

Madelon stepped forward impatiently towards the horse-stalls. There