' It is Trove who speaks.
"'Yes; there she is, coming yonder.'
"The mare is a rack of bones, limping, weary, sore. But see her
foot lift! You can't kill the pride of the Barbary. She falters;
her driver lashes her over the head. Trove is running toward her.
He climbs a front wheel, and down comes the driver. In a minute
Trove has her by the bit. He calls her by name--Phyllis! The slim
ears begin to move. She nickers. God, sir! she is trying to see
him. One eye is bleeding, the other blind. His arms go round her
neck, sir, and he hides his face in her mane. That mare you
ride--she is the granddaughter of Phyllis. I'd as soon think of
selling my wife. Really, sir, Darrel was right. God'll mind the
look of your horses."
So spake an old man sitting in the firelight. Since they sat down
the short hand of the clock had nearly circled the dial. There was
a little pause. He did love a horse--that old man of the hills.
"Trove went home with the mare," he continued. "She recovered the
sight of one eye, and had a box-stall and the brook pasture--you
know, that one by the beech grove. He got home the day before
Christmas. Polly met him at the depot--a charming lady, sir, and a
child of three was with her,--a little girl, dark eyes and flaxen,
curly hair.
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