on his side, stared out in the direction of the nicker. Down the road,
through the swaying purple of the early lilacs, ridden by a
picturesque cowboy, paced a great horse, glinting ruddy in the morning
sun-gold, flinging free the snowy foam of his mighty fetlocks, his
noble crest tossing, his eyes roving afield, the trumpet of his love-
call echoing through the springing land.

Dick Forrest was smitten at the same instant with joy and anxiety--joy
in the glorious beast pacing down between the lilac hedges; anxiety in
that the stallion might have awakened the girl who laughed from the
round wooden frame on his wall. He glanced quickly across the two-
hundred-foot court to the long, shadowy jut of her wing of the house.
The shades of her sleeping-porch were down. They did not stir. Again
the stallion nickered, and all that moved was a flock of wild
canaries, upspringing from the flowers and shrubs of the court, rising
like a green-gold spray of light flung from the sunrise.

He watched the stallion out of sight through the lilacs, seeing
visions of fair Shire colts mighty of bone and frame and free from
blemish, then turned, as ever he turned to the immediate thing, and
spoke to his body servant.

"How's that last boy, Oh My? Showing up?"

"Him pretty good boy, I think," was the answer. "Him young boy.
Everything new. Pretty slow. All the same bime by him show up good."

"Why? What makes you think so?"

"I call him three, four morning now. Him sleep like baby. Him wake up