Norah was on
Garryowen, her face flushed and laughing, her head thrown back a little
as the beautiful bay reefed and plunged forward, enjoying the speed as
much as his rider. Jim was a length or so behind on Monarch, whose one
ambition at that moment was, in Murty's words, "to get away on him." It
was plain that the boy was exulting in the tussle. The sunlight gleamed
on the black horse's splendid side as they dashed up the track.
As yet there had been no talk openly of a successor to Bobs--that wound
was still too sore. For the present Norah was to ride Garryowen, since
Monarch was far too frivolous to stand a long spell; Jim would handle
him for the months that must elapse before his father was in the saddle
again. Later on, Jim and Mr. Linton had great plans for something very
special--a new pony that would not disgrace Bobs' memory, and that would
fit the unused rug with the scarlet B that lay locked away in Norah's
wardrobe. Other things were locked away in her heart; she never spoke
of Bobs. But the two who were her mates knew.
The swift hoofs came thudding up the track and scattered the gravel by
the gate; then there was silence for a moment, voices and laughter, and
quick footsteps, and Jim and Norah came in together, their faces
glowing.
"How did you get on, Dad? Were we long?"
"Long!" said David Linton, whose face had grown suddenly contented.
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