Something in his talk and manner had gone deep into the
soul of the boy, who now whispered a moment with his father.
"Would you sell the filly?" said Allen. "My boy would like to own
her."
"What, ho, the boy! the beautiful boy! An' would ye love her,
boy?" the tinker asked.
"Yes, sir," the boy answered quickly,
"An' put a ribbon in her forelock, an' a coat o' silk on her back,
an', mind ye, a man o' kindness in the saddle?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then take thy horse, an' Allah grant thou be successful on her as
many times as there be hairs in her skin."
"And the price?" said Allen.
"Name it, an' I'll call thee just."
The business over, the tinker called to Trove, who had led the
filly to her stall,--
"You, there, strike the tents. Bring me the mare. This very day
she may bear me to forgiveness."
Trove brought the mare.
"Remember," said the old man, turning as he rode away, "in the day
o' the last judgment God 'll mind the look o' thy horse."
He rode on a few steps and halted, turning in the saddle.
"Thou, too, Phyllis," he called. "God 'll mind the look o' thy
master; see that ye bring him safe."
The little filly began to rear and call, the mother to answer.
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