Now and then Fraulein braved the terrors of the library, small
neatly-written lists in her hands. Miss Elinor needed this or that.
He would check up the lists, sign his name to them, and Elinor and
Fraulein would have a shopping excursion. He never gave Elinor
money.

On one of the lists one day he found the word, added in Elinor's
hand: "Horse."

"Horse?" he said, scowling up at Fraulein. "There are six horses
in the stable now."

"Miss Elinor thought--a riding horse--"

"Nonsense!" Then he thought a moment. There came back to him a
picture of those English gentlewomen from among whom he had
selected his wife, quiet-voiced, hard-riding, high-colored girls,
who could hunt all day and dance all night. Elinor was a pale
little thing. Besides, every gentlewoman should ride.

"She can't ride around here."

"Miss Elinor thought--there are bridle paths near the riding
academy."

It was odd, but at that moment Anthony Cardew had an odd sort of
vision. He saw the little grocer lying stark and huddled among
the phlox by the stable, and the group of men that stooped over him.