Chapter III: Part 3

“Wal, hit’s about de cu-isest feelin’ dat eber was felt,” he said, after awhile. “One minnit you am libin’ an’ de nex’ you am trablin’ ’long de road to Jurdan, an’ you can’t he’p yo’self to save yo’ life. You can’t stop, you can’t sot down, you can’t turn back. You jes’ seem to be drawed along like you was standin’ on a slidin’ sidewalk run on undergroun’ cables. But de road is buterful. Flowers bloom all aroun’ you. Birds sing in de sunshine on gold trees, an’ fishes swim in lakes of melted di’monds. Inste’d of bein’ outdoors an’ breathin’ air, you ’peer to be movin’ along under de bright roof ob a cut-glass house, or in a big bottle ob rarerfied perfume, wid de sun a blazin’ stopper in de roof.

“I didn’t kno’ whar I wus gwine to, an’ I didn’t keer—all I know’ wus I wus gwine, thang Gord!

“But, bimeby, everthing stop whar two roads met, an’ I know’d one of ’em went to heab’n, but I cudn’t say which one to save my life. I got down on my knees, an’ prayed fur light, but no light cum, an’ ’stid of it I heurd all de little birds singin’ in de gold trees all aroun’ me:

“‘If you foller the road of sorrer an’ sin,
An’ don’t pray fur light in de wurl’ you am in,
No use fur to pray in de nex’.’

“Dat mos’ par’lyze me, boss, an’ I’d a gi’n ennything ef I hadn’t spent so much time aroun’ race-tracks whilst I wus alive an’ had spent mo’ of it lookin’ for dis heah track, an’ tryin’ to fin’ out which road to take. Dar dey bofe lay, jes’ alike, shinin’ in de glow of eternity. An’ yit de very silence seem ter speak in thunder-tones, an’ de stillness was louder dan de noise of battle. It all depended on de path I tuck.

“Bimeby, I thort of Ole Marster’s little boy dat I seed die so long ago, an’ dat I useter nuss an’ carry in my arms, an’ of all de little chillun I seed bohn one day, an’ die de nex’, an’ I got down on my knees in de golden dust ob dat ’ar road an’ I look fur ter see if dar was enny baby tracks dar, fur I knowed whar de baby tracks wus, dat wus de road dat leads to heab’n.”

The old man stopped, and I saw him brush away a tear. He had said something as great as Shakespeare, and I, myself, had to take a turn around the room to stop before the picture of a little curly-head over the mantel, and listen again for the prattle of a laughter which began one spring with a bird’s note and ended with the first snow in a new-made grave.

When I came back, the old man was laughing. Tears—smiles—twins that dwell in the secret chambers of the heart, and they join hands so quickly at times!

“Bimeby,” he went on, “I look up de road, an’ heah cum ole Kunnel Ketchum, er-splittin’ de dust ob de golden road, an’ a-moppin’ his ole bald head wid a red bandanna handkerchief, an er-lookin’ es pi’us in death as he was sancterfied in life. Now, boss, you kno’ de Kunnel was one ob dese here prayin’ lawyers—dat you kin always safely brand as De Debbil’s Own—an’ he died jes’ ’fo’ I did, an’ he wus awful smart an’ awful slick, an’ whilst I didn’t hab much idee he knowed enny mo’ ’bout de road to heab’n dan I did, I was bankin’ on his ’bility to find it out fust.

“‘Hello, Wash,’ sezee, ‘which way you gwine?’

“Sez I: ‘Kunnel, I’m cogertatin’ on which ob dese heah roads leads to heab’n.’

“‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘I kin show you which road ter take. I dun bin up dar an’ file my brief wid Jedge Peter at de gate, but dar wus some leetle irregularerties in de pleadings, an’ I’ve come back to answer his demur.’

“Den he laugh, an’ say: ‘Wash, de ole feller don’t kno’ a little bit o’ law, an’ hit’s de easiest thing in de wurl’ to wuck him ef you’ll only do es I say. Now, when I went up an’ presented him my church papers, an’ tole ’im who I wus, deac’n an’ all dat, he ’lowed he nurver had larned to read English an’ he throwed my papers over a bluff, whar I seed some smoke risin’ an’ swellin’ sorter like de smoke ob a passin’ freight engine, an’ den he look at me an’ ax if I wus ridin’ or walkin’? Sez I, “Sir, I am walkin.” “Dat settles it,” sez he, “nobody erfoot will urver git in dis gait, and es fur dat artomobeel crowd,” sez he, “dey go on to hell widout stoppin’, fur dey carry de scent of hell erlong wid ’em, ennyhow. No, sah, Kunnel,” sez he, “you gotter ride a hoss to git into heah. We need ’em to pull de cherriots in heaben”—an’ de Kunnel look wise an’ stroke his chin-whiskers.

“‘Now, Wash,’ he went on, soft-like, ‘I’ve got a plan my color’d frien’ dat ull fix ole Peter an’ let us bofe in. I kno’ de road—I’ve bin dar befo’, so you be de hoss an’ I’ll be de rider, an’ Peter will throw open de gate, an’ let us bofe in. Dey’s nuffin’ lak a leetle brains, Wash—a leetle brains in dis wurl’ an’ de nex’.’

“Wal, boss, dat all look mighty conniv’rous ter me, an’ es I had been all my life a-totin’ de burdens ob de white man, it ’peered mighty nachul to keep it up. So I got down on my all-fo’s, de Kunnel he mounted me, an’ I started up de pike in a jog trot. But I hadn’t gone fur befo’ de ole Kunnel punch me in de side wid his heels, yanked my mouf nearly off wid de gallus bridle an’ de shoestring bit he fixed up fur me befo’ he started, an’ yelled out:

“‘Change dat gait, you ole fool, do you think I would ride into heab’n on a trottin’ hoss when I c’u’d ride a easy pacer?’

“I seed de pint, an’ shifted.

“‘Ah, dat’s better,’ sez he, ‘an mo’ restful.’

“At de gate Marse Peter stop us, an’ say: ‘Am you ridin’ or walkin’ suh?’

“‘Ridin’ dis time, yo’ Honoh,’ sey de Kunnel.

“‘Good,’ sez Peter, a-glancin’ at me, ‘but I don’t like de looks ob dat swayback scrub you’re ridin’, so I’ll jes’ let you hitch ’im to de fence, but you kin walk in!’

“An’ de ole Kunnel, he hitch me to de fence sho’ ’nuff, an’ walked in widout battin’ his eye or sayin’ much obleeged, an’ dar I wus champin’ a shoestring bit, tied to de fence ob heab’n, wid a gallus line, an’ dodgin’ a hoss-fly es big as a turkey gobbler dat wus buzzin’ aroun’ over de bluff nigh-by.

“Peter look at me a long time, sorter smilin’ an’ sorter mad, an den he sez: ‘Thort you’d fool me, did you? Wal, for dis decepshun, I’ll turn you into a sho’ nuff hoss,’ and befo’ I c’u’d say scat, boss, I wus a black Hal pacer, wid two white feet, a star, snip, black mane and tail, so help me Gord, an’ dat ’ar hoss-fly es big es a turkey was buzzin’ aroun’ tryin’ to bore a hole in me.

“Gimme anurver dram, boss.”

I thought he was entitled to it.

“But dat wa’n’t all. F’um dat day on dey didn’t do nuffin’ but use me on dat road, carryin’ folks up to de gate, but nurver gittin’ in myse’f. An’ dey wucked me ’twell I almos’ drapped dead ag’in. An’ I carried Jews an’ Turks an’ Chinese, an’ eb’ry kind o’ man dat urver libbed, ’twell de golden pike wus a pile ob brass, an’ de sun was a furnace ob fiah, an’ me de hoss, a-doin’ all de totin’.

“An’ ebry day ole Peter ’u’d lead me to de bluff an’ let me look ober on de pit down below. An’ dar I seed folks I nurver dreamed ’u’d be dar, in dis wurl’, an’ I failed ter see udders dat I thort ’u’d be dar on de hottes’ gridiron. Dar wus heathens a-wonderin’ what it all meant, an’ Christians still ’sputin’ on baptism an’ santerfercashun, an’ ev’ry one ob ’em, boss, a-holdin’ a fat Afercan heathen ’twixt him an’ de fiah. Greeks, Turks, niggers, Jews, Spanyards—all dar, boss. Dar wus doctors, still a-lyin’ an’ lookin’ wise, an’ when de yudders called fur water de debbil had ’em to dose ’em wid quinine an’ calermel, or cut open de reel bad men huntin’ fur de ’pendix. Lawyers? Boss, if hell only had a bookcase an’ a dirty carpet, cuspedores an’ a sweatin’ lot ob bad-smellin’ jurors, you’d a-thort it wus some ord’nary co’te-house wid a fiah attachment. In one corner dey had penned off a lot ob ole wimmens, all talkin’ an’ argyin’ at onct, an’ I ax Peter whut dey wus, an’ he sed dey wus de muthers ob de wives ob men, an’ dey had to be penned off dar ter keep ’em frum runnin’ de place an’ bossin’ it deyselves.

“Dey wus all dar, boss—all but de babies, as I wus tellin’ you. Nurver did I heah de wail ob a little one come up frum de pit, nur de lisp ob a lullerby turned into moan. Fur de sweetes’ nurse dat eber a baby had, had sed, whilst He was on earth, ‘De little chillun I’ll take keer of them’—an’ dey had all gone to Him.

“Day arter day I seed dis; day arter day I carried nations on my back from de partin ob de two ways to de gate whar Peter stood, ’till I prayed to die ag’in.

“An’ one day, when I thort I c’u’dn’t stan’ it no longer, dar come along a smilin’, quiet man, wid a kind look in his eyes. An’ dey tole him to mount me an’ ride me up to de hill. But he looked me all ober, my puffed legs an’ sore feet an’ sweat-caked sides an’ drawn flank, an’ he said: ‘No—no—I wouldn’t ride into heab’n on the miz’zry ob a dumb beast.’

“An’ he fotch me some water to squench my thirt, an’ he tuck off de saddle an’ bathe my back, an’ he led me slowly up de hill. An’ when we come to de gate, Peter looked at ’im pow’ful ’stonished, an’ sed:

“‘Who am you, suh, dat w’u’d choose ter walk ter heab’n when you mout ride?’

“An’ den de man look at ’im quiet lak, an’ say, ‘I am nuffin heah, my Lord, an’ it matters not whut my name am. Call me one dat had no creed, an’ harmed no man, an’ lubbed all things, Lord, yea, eben de beasts of de fiel’s an’ de birds ob de air an’ de wurm dat creepeth. An’ so loving them, I would not ride eben to heaben’s gate on de miz’zry ob enny beast that Gord has made.’

“An’ den dar cum a burst ob music de lak of which no man eber heurd befo’, an’ a buterful gate on a ribber I nurver seed befo’ was flung wide open, an’ a voice sed: ‘Righteousness an’ truth hab met toguther. Whatsoever you did unto one ob dese you do it also unto me.’

“An’ Peter waved his han’ an’ de man was clothed in white an’ light, an’ went in de glory gate—de onlies’ one ob dem all dat went in, an’ I seed dat yudder gate dat ole Kunnel Ketchum an’ all went in wusn’t heab’n at all, but jus a side entrance to hell—an’ es he went in he waved his han’ at me’ an’ sed: ‘Go back ag’in to earth an’ learn to lub all things dat Gord hes made, an’ yo’ na’bur as yo’se’f,’ an’ befo’ I knowed it I stood in my grabe-clothes in de woods of Bigby, lookin’ fust at de grabe at my feet an’ den at de skies above me, an’ wonderin’ whut hed happen sence I died.”

The queer turn the old man gave to his story set me to thinking, and the hidden lesson touched me so greatly I could not reply. To throw off its weirdness, I finally said:

“Well, what had become of the widder?”

“I tole you I wus dead nigh six weeks. My wife, she’d marri’d ag’in, thank Gord, whilst I wus dead!”

The Ghost, Cassandra

BY J. MADISON SHEPPARD

The servants—overhearing the eager, excited footman’s message to the young mistress—had gathered hurriedly upon the rear porch to inspect the new arrival; cook, kitchen-maid, butler, flanked on one side by the parlor-maids, and on the other by a small errand boy, who peeped in open-mouthed wonder from beneath the elbow of the waiting footman.

The new arrival was a beautiful white mare. She had quickly thrown her head upward, and now stood at gaze—regarding them. Alert, ardent, with a slight distinguishable tremor of expectancy, but no trace of fear in either posture or regard—merely bright inquiry.

“She was the incarnation of the Arab of romance;” lithe, delicately tapering limbs, satin skin shimmering in the sunlight, pink nostrils flaring wide from her quick breath, eyes glowing with intelligence, and, withal, a thing of beauty, standing, as it were, transfixed in passionate silence.

When the mistress of the house at last came down the great wide stairway, the group fell back forming a semi-circle, leaving her face to face with the bright object of interest.

“So that is the horse,” she said, in faint astonishment, which, however, grew gradually into an expression of pure admiration and wonder; for the beauty she beheld was little short of marvelous.

She turned suddenly to the servants with a perplexed gesture. “Is the brougham at the door?” she asked. The footman signified that it was. “Tell Thomas to come here.” The coachman a moment later had fixed his eyes upon the newcomer that had attracted the group. At length, his decorous gravity gave way to a smile of distinct pleasure, expressive of the praise that seemed to tremble upon his lips; but, he remained silent, a martyr to his training, his very features admirably correct.

“Is that a well-bred horse, Thomas?” demanded the young mistress.

“It certainly is, ma’am, if looks count for anything,” replied Thomas.

“Very well bred?”

“I’m sure ma’am, the creature must be perfectly so; I’ve never seen anything so fine ma’am, ’pon my word,” he continued, the swelled veins of his forehead betraying his stifled enthusiasm.

“Do you mean by that, Thomas, you have never seen that horse before?”

Thomas hesitated.

“Say what you wish to say, Thomas,” prompted the young mistress, with a hasty glance at his face.

“Thanky, ma’am. Well, you know, ma’am, that your lawyer, sometime last fall, had the poor master’s trainer sell off some of the horses from his stable. I’m sure, ma’am, that this is the one the trainer complained so much of selling, but Mr. Grannan had offered a big price, and the lawyer made him sell her.”

She had already stepped forward to caress the eager, gazing animal, timidly, for she could not resist the earnest, entreating look it bestowed, but, when Thomas spoke the word “master,” she drew back sharply and stood motionless.

“Never fear, ma’am,” said the coachman, “she won’t harm, ma’am.”

“So, it’s Mr. Grannan’s horse,” she repeated coldly; and then, hastily turning, she passed through the house to the front door, which the boy, anticipating her intention, with much dignity now held open. A moment later she had descended the steps, and was in her brougham with Thomas upon the box, and the austere footman gazing expectant at the window.

“To my lawyer’s office,” she said, calmly.

II

“The spring sunshine gilded the tops of the park trees. Here and there the branches of the tall elms spread their tinted green; while the maples and chestnuts glowed in almost the full glory of their new leaves.” Scarlet blossoms, on the otherwise apparently naked shrubs bedded in the green lawns, facades of the brown stone mansions and glass-fronted shops, could be seen everywhere, on either side of the drive.

The scenes through which she now passed—looking upon, yet seeing dimly—aroused within her a miserable consciousness that the memory of her husband, who had once so much loved these very scenes, had also faded with the spring gladness into an amazing dimness.

So Grannan had sent her the horse! In the first year of her widowhood she had, by chance, met Grannan. It was on the occasion of the anniversary of her twenty-second birthday. She had a relative—an old aunt—who had visited her from San Francisco. She knew Grannan in her home there, and, meeting him in the city had invited him to her house to dine. In the beginning of the second year of her widowhood, Grannan had offered himself; but, the look that she had then given him, froze the declaration of love upon his lips, and caused him to feel and know the utter hopelessness of his offer. She had not seen him since then. And now, just at the end of the second year of widowhood, he had offered her the gift.

She had, at first, intended to keep it. Her husband had been intensely devoted to horses, and she, through his influence had cultivated a fondness she had always had for them, and which had steadily increased; but, the words of Thomas caused her to dismiss any idea she might have entertained toward harboring the gift.

The brougham stopped in front of the lawyer’s office. Presently that gentleman stepped forward and greeted her at the window. He soon verified the truthfulness of the statement of Thomas concerning the sale, adding that, despite the vehement protests of the trainer, he had deemed it unwise to reject the very extraordinary offer of Mr. Grannan.

Mr. Grannan, though, he continued, was known as an exceptionally fine judge of horses, and enjoyed a most enviable reputation among horsemen for the prodigious success his skill had achieved for him.

She informed him of her determination now, to absent herself from the city for perhaps an unusual time, and requested that all necessary letters of credit should be at once prepared and forwarded to her.

Then, signaling the footman and designating the cathedral, she bade the attorney adieu.

III

Walter Grannan, who was conversing with some of his fellow-members at the club, which was situated on a corner near the cathedral, was now coming hastily forward towards her, just as she had alighted from her brougham and ordered it not to await her, saying, she would walk home.

“It is very fortunate—at least for me,” he said. “I did so want to see you.”

“I am going away to-morrow, and—of course it’s about the horse,” she said, pleasantly.

He smiled as he noted the charm of her face. “I am to hope; then, that you will accept her?”

“Oh, but I just can’t,” she said, “while I must thank you so much for asking me.”

In a moment she was sorry almost that she had said it. His expression touched her; and, though she could not satisfy herself why she should care—what were the expressions of men’s faces to her?—still, the twit was there. She felt it keenly as she now gazed steadfastly ahead, as they walked slowly and silently along in the direction of the marble church.

“I also am decided to go away to-morrow,” she said, at length, in a quiet tone.

Nothing was said in reply.

The great spire of the cathedral towered above her. The tones of the organ came throbbing from within. A funeral cortege entered. There was a coffin, piled high with wreaths of flowers. There the same dread pomp and circumstance of death that was attendant upon her husband. She shuddered as she turned aside her head.

Yes! Yes! She would go—go to-morrow. She must go! In her nervousness her handkerchief dropped from her hand.

As Grannan bent forward to pick it up, he observed a single white flower that had fallen from the wreaths piled upon the coffin, and gathered this in his hand also. He started to offer it to her; but, observing the thoughtful, troubled look upon her face, refrained. They had now stopped; and, a moment later when in a fit of abstraction he was attempting to pinion the flower to the lapel of his coat, she involuntarily seized his hand.

“What is it?” he asked.

Her face crimsoned as she instantly withdrew her hand, and struggled for composure. “Why—er, it’s bad luck,” she exclaimed.

“What’s bad luck?” asked he, with that peculiar tone of voice indicating that there was no answer for his query.

“Oh, nothing; silliness, mere nonsense,” she said, betraying signs of her agitation which Grannan, however, failed to discover. “And now,” she continued, “I must say good-bye, for you are going away, you say, and I must thank you, oh, I can’t say how much, for your offer of the beautiful horse.”

“And, do you really mean that you will not accept my gift?” he said, slowly.

She bit her lip and bent her eyes downward, while she moved the point of her shoe restlessly upon the stone paving.

“O, I might manage,” she at length began, hesitatingly, “if only to gratify your whim, to keep it, for a while; but—”

“You see,” he interrupted, “I wanted you to have something to remind—”

“Good-bye,” she repeated, smiling as she gave him her hand. “So you really go away to-morrow?”

“At once,” he said, gravely, as he pressed the hand she was now withdrawing from his own, and turned away.

She paused within the vestibuled entrance of the cathedral in what proved to be a vain endeavor to calm the turbulency of her feelings. The fingers of her gloved hand were still deadened by the pressure from which she had just released them. Her eyes had even mastered her will, and now sought with the intensity of eagerness, the dim outlines of a figure that was now lost amid the throng, now faintly visible, with its downcast head and slowly receding step. At last it vanished.

The unsteady, subdued, solemn tones of the great organ within again rolled tumultuously upon her. She stood struggling, as it were, with the overwhelming waves of sound. Both her eyes and memory seemed now to focus upon a receding past.

The dead face of her husband drifted from out the vacancy, so real that she started, stopped, then started again, slowly descending the steps.

She turned her face homeward. Unconscious of the tide of restless passers-by, and of the noise that roared imprisoned by the walls of the high buildings on either side of the street, she turned abstractedly from the square, lost in the depths of her meditations.

She was thinking of her husband. Thinking of a day on the race-course; the day upon which she had first met him. Of how she had then dreamed of his wonderful personality, and afterwards learned how easily and completely it had swayed her own. Of how untiring, faultlessly devotional had been his constant care for her, and of how precisely perfect and pleasureable had been their married life.

She grew desperate now, and upbraided herself distressingly to think that already he should have become to her “nothing more vital than a memory.”

Yes, after all, she would go. She would go to the scene where she had first met him, to San Francisco; her husband’s stable of horses was now there.

As she entered leisurely the door of her home, and was met by her maid in the hall, who relieved her of her wraps, she made known her intention of leaving on the morrow, and gave instructions to her to have everything in readiness for their departure. She then went from the rear porch of the house in the direction of the coachman’s quarters, to notify Thomas to make preparations desired. This, she had persuaded herself, was her real reason for going to the locality set apart for the horses; but, was it?

No sooner had Thomas been found than the very first question asked him was pertaining to the welfare of his charge. A few moments later, it was she who was gently caressing the milk-white, deer-head of the mare, with her soft hands, now stroking the shiny neck, now encircling it within her arms, while the warm breath from the pink nostrils fanned at intervals her fair brow, sending a-whirl some truant lock of her wavy hair.

“Thomas,” she now said, turning a face full of inquiry upon the coachman, who had stood with a look of amazement, gazing upon the manifest interest and affection of the young mistress, “what is her name?”

“Well, ma’am,” he replied, assuming the air now of one who feels the importance of being the proud possessor of some rare bit of information, “ever since she played in the paddock, three years ago now, by her mother’s side, and the master would come and take her little head in his hands, just as you have, ma’am, and pinch her cheeks, and laugh at her odd pranks, he called her Cassandra.”

“Cassandra!” she repeated. “Then he must have loved her?”

“Oh, indeed he did, ma’am, she was his favorite, and the trainer knew it, too.”

“Thomas, we start for San Francisco in the morning. You are to go, and have in your especial care, Cassandra. When you have arrived there deliver her again into the hands of the trainer, with instructions that the best of attention be shown her.”

“Thanky, ma’am,” said Thomas. “I’m proud of my charge, ma’am, indeed I am, for she’s a plum picture.”

IV

Five weeks passed. With her aunt beside her, and with Thomas upon the box, the mistress was sweeping through a bright avenue in the far Western city. The sky had forgotten the storm of the day before, and the splendor of a noonday sun now slept upon its bosom. Nature was smiling, but the smile was not wholly in accord with the feelings of the mistress. A restless, fitful mood had settled upon her in the early morning, and she had ordered the drive, as she now frequently did, to the race course.

Her aunt, strange to say, was not a very garrulous old lady, and the dark, foreboding thoughts which persistently crept into the mind of the mistress, so perplexed her that she appeared dull. Since her husband’s death she had acquired the habit of pursuing at will her train of thought, and now she could not easily break it, even in the presence of others. Her thoughts now, as they had been much of late, were associated with the little “Cassandra.” She was sorely vexed with the chiding she at times administered to herself for the strong, though, perhaps, strange attachment she felt to be growing dally within her.

Was she then destined, as the very name would imply, to fall in love with Cassandra? Was she indeed to be fascinated, lured to what had at first appeared to her the very shores of sin, “by the light of such wondrous eyes?” Involuntarily she recalled the words of “Ouida;” “There are no eyes that speak more truly, none on earth that are so beautiful as the eyes of the horse—dark as a gazelle’s, soft as a woman’s, brilliant as stars, a little dreamy and mournful, infinitely caressing when they look at those they love.”

The carriage stopped. They had reached the stables. Instead of awaiting, as usual, the appearance of the trainer, she found that she had alighted and hastily sought the compartment set aside for Cassandra; and, that it was her glossy, silvery little head, that was now swaying so gently within her arms. Memory again reverted to her husband. To the time when his hands fondled the same head, his eyes sparkled at her playful pranks, his lips uttered the word that had named her.

The voice of the trainer suddenly sounding in her ears startled her and she turned rather abruptly toward him.

“She’s improving, ma’am,” he said, after his usual salutation, “with every day. The climate is telling on her, for she leaves a clean trough now after each meal; and her speed—well, no longer than daylight this morning she showed her heels for better’n a quarter to some of the very best ones in the barn, ma’am.”

“But you do not intend to race her, do you?” she exclaimed. “She’s too pretty and to much of a plaything, I should think, for that?”

“True, she is a beauty, ma’am,” replied the trained, “but as for plaything”—he laughed aloud at the thought as he muttered brokenly—“well, if I can get the proper weight on her in that big handicap Saturday, and the track’s right, she might be about the most playful proposition these cracks have yet got up against. And then, there ought to be a good price, too.”

“Oh, but you must not sell her.”

“Sell her! I could have thumped that lawyer for selling her. No, ma’am; I mean there ought to be heavy odds against her in such company.”

“Thomas tells me that Hildreth won yesterday.”

“So she did, ma’am; but at short price, odds on, a favorite you know.”

“Mr. Grannan, though,” he went on, “so his trainer told me, lost pretty heavily on his entry. He said he telegraphed him to place ten thousand on his entry and that he, of course, lost it. Mr. Grannan’s been playing in tough luck all round, so they say.”

At the mention of Grannan’s name the mistress gave a perceptible start, a shudder passed over her, and a moment later, with some stifled remarks she ended the interview, and was moving away in her carriage.

Long after she had retired to her apartments in the home of her aunt, did she hear the words that had escaped the lips of the trainer, sounding within her ears. Grannan had had bad luck! The scene in front of the cathedral was again evolving in her mind. The funeral cortege, the coffin piled high with the floral wreaths. A sudden trepidation seized upon her. She had again dropped the handkerchief. She saw the handsome face of the tall figure beside her bending forward to recover it and then gather the fatal flower.

Could it be that Grannan’s fate—ill fortune, perhaps ruin—had been sealed by the fall of a handkerchief, as many another horseman’s had by the fall of a flag? And that handkerchief dropped by her hand? Could she then be unwittingly instrumental in the downfall which seemed to threaten him? The thought distracted her. She arose from her seat and walked the floor of her room in a fit of petulancy. Her brain teemed with myriad vague and indescribable fancies. The fingers of her hand grew numb, deadened, as though she had but withdrawn them from his parting grasp. She saw the same expression of his face that had touched her, when she had refused his gift. The look of entreaty in his eyes as he turned away.

“Alas!” she at length exclaimed aloud, muttering to herself strangely in her bewilderment. “Alas! alas! for the doctrines of pernicious fatalism. How oft do we entangle ourselves in our own sophisms; and, after all, what poor strugglers we are in the eternal web of destiny. The devils must, indeed, oft laugh out at the fool who has boasted wisdom.”

V

Saturday morning dawned. Dashes of sunlight at length began to dart through the rifts in the lifting clouds. It had rained heavily during the night, and the mistress, though she had ordered out her carriage for a drive to the race course, felt that the condition of the track would, no doubt, preclude the possibility of Cassandra’s start in the handicap. She remembered that the trainer had said, “if the track’s right.” However, she must go. The spell, the fascination that drew her thither seemed irresistible. Her aunt persuaded her to remain for lunch; but one o’clock found her gazing with intensity into the depths of the bewitching eyes, while she tenderly stroked the shapely little head that Cassandra had at sight of her thrust through the doorway of her apartment.

“I was just starting,” said the trainer, who now addressed her, “for a last inspection of the track before deciding what’s best to do. You know, ma’am,” he continued, “this is to be a hard-fought race, and while I believe the little girl”—nodding at Cassandra—“is well conditioned to go the route of a mile and a quarter, and will stand the punishment, still, in heavy going the chances are all against her. There’s Helen Orland,” he went on, “and Empress and Annabel—the track to-day, ma’am’s to their liking.”

The trainer paused, for he could not help but note unmistakable traces of disappointment on the face of the mistress.

Indeed, nothing could have more delighted her now than merely the appearance of her “little pet” upon the track, if only to receive the words of praise from the spectators she felt sure she would. But, as it was a matter to be left entirely with the trainer, she now turned towards him, and handed him a roll of bills from her purse, saying as she did so: “You are doubtless in need of money for expenses. I shall send Thomas to you for your final decision.” So saying, she stepped into her carriage, which moved off in the direction of the clubhouse.

“Gad!” said the trainer. “Five thousand dollars! This reminds me of old times, when the master was living. Only when he gave me a roll like this it was with instructions to keep my eyes on ‘Bookies,’ and make them keep their odds right.”

The crowd had now commenced to flow into the grounds in droves and bunches. As the mistress, calm and collected, swept down the top balcony of the clubhouse to a position that commanded a full view of the course, admiring glances from every direction followed after her. Unattended as she was, and with manner of complete reserve and composure, she seemed wholly absorbed with her own thoughts.

Seated in a group just to her left, and but a few feet in front of her was Colonel Townsend, an old gentleman, with Major Campbell and two others—evidently horsemen, all earnestly engaged in a discussion of horses and races in general.

As she sat listening—as she was compelled to do—to some of the loud-spoken utterances of the group, she surveyed with interest the crowd below her, which was now growing larger and larger. She chanced to observe a man and a boy walking slowly along the track over in front of the stables.

Adjusting her field glasses she saw that it was her trainer and jockey. They appeared to be examining the track carefully, while the trainer pointed to a spot along the outside rail. They then disappeared. As they were leaving the track she could see the trainer shaking his head slowly, with his eyes bent upon the ground.

The pang of disappointment now rankled within her. She knew that Cassandra’s start had been discussed and that it was abandoned. She had never realized till now how thoroughly expectant she had been. Her thoughts took on the coloring of her insatiate longing with which she battled. Her mind passed in review all the struggles, all the regrets, all the vague fancies it had conjured when coupled with the bare name Cassandra.

“Yet,” thought she, “my husband named her. She was his favorite. Why shouldn’t she be mine? I could not help my attachment. Besides, I’m sure it must have grown strong—as it has—on his account. How I had wished to see her start, wished to hear her beauty praised by others!”

The band in the amphitheatre now struck up a lively air and the horses entered for the first race passed for review before the judges preparatory to going to the post. A stranger, who came pressing his way along the balcony until he had joined the group with Major Campbell, seated himself and looked intently at a programme he carried in his hand.

“Major,” he asked, “what entry is this in the handicap that I hear them call ‘the ghost’?”

“Oh,” replied the Major, “that is the little mare ‘Cassandra.’”

At the mention of the name the mistress inclined her ear instantly. “That’s singular,” continued the stranger. “What’s the significance, Major—or do you know?”

“Why, that’s the name the boys here at the track gave to her and by which she is now generally known. You see,” he continued, “her owner, who was greatly attached to her as a mere weanling, is now dead. Have you never seen her, sir?”

The stranger shook his head.

“Well, she’s a little marvel of beauty, sir, a perfect dream; milk-white from tip to tip and as trim and shapely as a gazelle.”

“Does she start this evening?” inquired the stranger.

“Townsend told me but a while ago that he had just heard she would not start.”

“I’m sorry,” replied the stranger, “but after your description of her, Major, I think I shall make a special trip to the stable to see her.”

“You knew her owner, did you not?” asked the major.

“I can’t recall him,” said the stranger, thoughtfully.

“Why, he’s been with us often—a jolly good fellow he was, too, full of life and—”

“Was he married?” interrupted the stranger.

“No—that is, I think not,” said the Major, “for I heard something once to the effect that he was much in love with Judge Taggart’s daughter. By the way,” he continued, “that young lady is, I believe, married now.”

“Yes,” replied the stranger. “I knew her—Miss Cassie.”

“They’re off!” came the shout from the crowd below, and instantly there was a general careening of necks from the balcony. A minute later and the crowd below surged toward the railing of the track and gathered about the judges’ stand, as the horses rushed toward the wire.

Then there was a wild commotion, followed later by a general movement in the direction of the “board pencilers.”

Thus the evening passed on, race by race, with a repetition of the usual scenes and events, until at last there sounded the bugle call for the handicap.

There was a distinct bustle and stir now among the expectant throng, which said plainly that the race of the evening was about to come off.

“Colonel Townsend,” asked the Major, “have you seen Grannan since his arrival to-day?”

“Yes,” responded the Colonel. “I had a short talk with him this morning. I’m sorry for Grannan,” he continued, “he has been singularly unlucky of late, and he says there seems to be no end of it.”

At the mention of the name of Grannan the mistress leaned over and listened. She had long been sitting motionless, stolid, oblivious to everything save her thoughts. Some one touched her upon the arm, and turning sharply, with a startled look in her face, she beheld the outstretched hand of Thomas, holding a batch of tickets.

“The trainer said, ma’am, to tell you that he just could not help it, ma’am; when he saw twenty to one posted against Cassandra’s chances, he made the ‘pencilers’ rub it off, and here, ma’am are the tickets. Mr. Grannan, he said, had placed a large sum on the Empress,” continued Thomas, “and that he took the liberty to purchase pools on Cassandra at the tempting odds.”

She clutched the tickets nervously in her hand and quickly thrust them into her purse, trembling visibly as she did so.

“Ah,” said Colonel Townsend, “we were speaking of Grannan. There is his mare now—Empress—out for the handicap. I think, though,” he continued, “that Helen Orland—Briggs’ mare—is going to have decidedly the best of it in the going to-day.”

“Well,” said the Major, “I like Rosalind or Houston’s entry—Geraldine.”

“What’s the matter with Annabel?” chimed in the stranger. “There she is now. She certainly looks a winner, and the distance just suits her.”

A wild cheer now suddenly burst from the crowd as Helen Orland passed in front of the judges’ stand. She was evidently a favorite with the spectators, for the cheer was repeated.

“Ho! ho!” shouted the Major. “She is going to start. There comes the ‘little ghost.’”

And simultaneously with his words, a bevy of swipes and stable boys set up a yell.

“Mother of Moses!” ejaculated the stranger. “Major, but you were right. She is a dream.”

“Yes, and a beautiful dream at that,” added the Major.

“Evidently she’s no nightmare,” echoed a shrill voice from the crowd.

Poor little Cassandra! She was prancing to the music of the band as proudly as a queen, tossing her dainty head from side to side as gamely and defiantly as a sparrow.

The mistress turned with a look, intense in its anxiety, to Thomas, who was still standing, and thrusting her purse into his hand instructed him to hurry with it to Mr. Grannan, tell him what the trainer had done and say to him that as he was Cassandra’s rightful owner she desired him to do as he wished with purse and contents.

Then lifting her glasses to her eyes with trembling hands, she scanned eagerly the horses as they gathered at the post. Soon, from sheer trembling and weakness, her hands dropped into her lap. Now, for the first time, she beheld Grannan with his back turned toward the track and searching with an anxious gaze the balcony upon which she was seated.

He raised his glasses to his eyes and began slowly to sweep the crowd. As he did this her head sank involuntarily upon her breast. The blood rushed to her face. She was abashed—painfully so. What had she done? Could she stop Thomas? Would that she had seen him before she had sent Thomas. Yet he had placed a large sum on Empress. Thomas had said so. What if he should lose? The thought chilled her. She shuddered violently. He has already lost heavily. It may ruin him.

“They’re off!” roared the throng, and then came the portentous silence. She raised her eyes and saw the form of Grannan now facing with earnest gaze the approaching horses. On they came, as if some terror-inspiring object had suddenly stampeded them.

“Rosalind a neck, Lucinda a length, Helen Orland a head,” commenced the song of the “caller,” from below.

Another moment and they were sweeping past the judges’ stand.

The stranger, with a manifest anxiety in the tone of his voice, now observed that Annabel was lapped on Helen Orland and that Empress had moved up well to the front. Lucinda, he said, had fallen back.

“The ‘little ghost,’” said the Major eagerly, “keeps well up to the bunch, but she’s too small, though, too small.”

Around the turn they whirled, till now the “caller” cried out: “At the half; Rosalind, a neck; Empress, half length; Annabel, a length; Helen Orland—”

“Rosalind, it seems,” exclaimed the Major, “can’t shake them off. See, she’s falling back. Empress leads now and both Helen Orland and Annabel are coming up on her.”

“Look at the ‘little ghost,’” screamed a voice from the crowd as they were rounding into the stretch.

“Ah, but she’s swerved,” chimed in the stranger, “clear to the rail—too bad, too bad; she’s out of it now; but see the Empress, how determined she is. The fight is on now and Annabel and Helen Orland are running as a team. Look! they’re at her throat on either side.”

“Into the stretch: Empress a head; Annabel, a head; Helen Orland—”

“The Empress will win, sure!” said the Colonel.

“Hold!” shouted the stranger. “Look at that! Look at that! They’ve bumped into her. She’s off her stride.”

“Annabel wins easy!” now shouted a chorus of voices from below.

“But here! here! Look at the rail—at the rail!” yelled the stranger, as the crowd below took up the shout and roared: “The Ghost! The Ghost wins!” “No, it’s Annabel, Annabel!” shouted others, “it’s Annabel!”

And thus they flashed under the wire. The crowd now surged around the judges’ stand. A living stream poured out from the amphitheater. Hideous screams and yells rent the very air: “The Ghost!” “Annabel!” “Annabel!” “The Ghost!” “Annabel!” “Cassandra!” “Annabel!” while burning eyes strained, eager to catch the number—No. 7. Cassandra had won.

One long, shrill, deafening shriek now pierced the air, then died away, amidst a rudely descending shower of hats, parasols, and umbrellas. A mad rush for the “bookies,” and the race was ended.

The mistress still stood peering from the balcony as if paralyzed. Her eyes, now fixed, stared from features as pale and immovable as if wrought by the hand of a sculptor. Thomas stood tapping nervously upon the sleeve of her dress, while his ungovernable heels played a tattoo upon the sounding floor. He was unheeded. He ventured a more violent tug, and the shapely figure swung slowly around as though poised on a pivot. “Cassandra’s won, ma’am!”

Her lips moved, but the words were inaudible. Her eyes turned again, bent in the direction of the judges’ stand.

“Have the judges said so, Thomas?”

“Her number’s 7, ma’am,” and pointing to where the number hung, he said: “There’s the number. And here, ma’am,” he continued, gesturing wildly, “are the tickets. I couldn’t find Mr. Grannan, ma’am, and didn’t know what to do, so I lit in and pretty nigh backed Miss Cassie off them boards like I ’lowed Mr. Grannan would have done.”

“We’ll go there at once—to the stables,” said the mistress.

“I’ll fetch the carriage to the side entrance, here, ma’am, if you wish.”

She nodded assent as he hurried away. A familiar voice now caused her to look up into the face of Grannan.

“I must congratulate you,” he said, as he took her hand, “upon the victory of little Cassandra, though I must say I never knew her by that name until now. I was utterly amazed,” he continued, “when I thought I had recognized her. How delighted I am now to know that she won.”

“I am just going to see Cassandra now; will you go with me?” asked the mistress.

A little later, when they were driving in the direction of the stables, she turned to him and said: “I was awfully sorry it had been decided to start Cassandra, when my coachman told me that you had an entry in the race. Did she in any way hinder your chances for success?”

“In no way whatever, I can assure you.”

“Did you lose very heavily on Empress?”

“Oh, nothing that I could say would so much exceed my usual losses of late.”

“Have you ever thought,” she asked, “of the flower that fell from the bier which you persisted in fastening to the lapel of your coat?”

“Am I to be forever doomed, then, for that one perverse act?” he exclaimed.

“Oh, I don’t know. I believe, though, there is an old adage which they say affords some consolation to those who recount their losses.”

“And, pray, what is the adage?”

“Let me see—I think it runs something like this: ‘Unlucky in sport, lucky in l—’”

The word died upon her lips. It was smothered by a kiss.

There was a low whinny near the window of the carriage now as it stopped, and little Cassandra was peering eagerly in, from beneath her gray blanket. The boy led her closer to the window; and, as the mistress clasped her head in her arms, Grannan clasped the mistress in his.

The History of the Hals

CHAPTER VIII.

By JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE

(NOTE—In the beginning we promised our readers that the History of the Hals would not be confined entirely to dry statistics, but would include stories of these horses, and practical information relating to other horse matters. Hence, these two following papers—Editor)

Editor Trotwood’s:

In reading your very interesting and instructive “History of the Hals” and your learned dissertation on the difference between the trot and the pace, I am reminded of one of the most laughable and richest races I ever saw, and which has never been in print before. Understand that thirty-three years ago, when this true story happened, we did not know as much about the difference between the trot and the pace as we do to-day, and which was so ably illustrated in your preceding chapters. Very well—now, for the place: An Illinois town near the Indiana line.

Abe Stickney and Bob Langdon, living in adjoining towns, were rival dealers in road and track horses in a small way. Some time before my story opens Langdon, by a little shrewd, and, perhaps, not quite fair dealing, “singed” Abe for a couple of hundred, and the latter was “laying for him,” as the saying goes. Abe was “game,” and never had uttered a word of complaint, but had kept up a “deal of thinkin’.” In other words, to use one from “The Bishop of Cottontown,” he “froze.”

He was over in Indiana one day, and at a county fair saw a horse of the Blue Bull family, called Hoosier Boy.

In order that your readers may better understand and appreciate this narrative (for I am sure you know the peculiarities of the Blue Bulls), I will explain that the Blue Bull family of horses originated in Indiana, that little was known of the ancestors of the founder of the family, Blue Bell No. 75, that the name was a combination derived from his peculiar color, and a nickname bestowed on him by his enemies, who called him “Prudens Bull,” but he turned out like the “Ugly Duckling,” and surprised his friends and shamed his enemies by founding a remarkable family, and at one time, since I can well remember, he was the champion sire of 2:30 speed, some sixty in number. They were nearly all natural pacers, but as pacers were not popular those days, they were made to trot by the use of heavy toe-weights.

The horse that Abe saw was taking his morning exercise and was a nice, smooth-gaited pacer. In the afternoon, to his astonishment, he saw the same horse win a trotting race in pretty good time. Abe investigated the matter at once and found that he could buy the horse very reasonably, as he was not quite sound, and he also learned that not a step would he trot without toe-weights, but would pace quite fast, though not nearly as fast as he could trot. The horse was shipped home with a bunch of others he had bought, and Abe immediately began to lay his plans. He hired a fellow that he could trust and sent him out to the fair grounds with his horse and then proceeded to Langdon’s town and communicated to Bob’s friends that he had a horse that could beat anything in the county. That was enough, and Bob was looking for Abe and he did not have any trouble to find him.

“They tell me you have a regular streak o’ greased lightning, Abe?”

“Who in thunder’s been lying to you, Bob. Ain’t got nothing but a cheap one, but I would bet ten on a little race between Hoozier Boy and Gray Dan just for fun, might make it twenty the day of race if my horse is all right.”

The ten was soon posted, and the day set a week later, as Abe was on his way to Chicago to be gone a week.

Soon after, Langdon, knowing that Abe was away, sent a couple of friends over to learn all they could about Hoosier Boy. They found the horse in charge of a very sociable fellow.

Yes, that horse was a pacer, and he “lowed” he could step some. He was going to train him a little and they could see him step if they would stay.

So out came Hoosier Boy, and they saw him work a mile, and there was no mistake.

Abe’s man certainly was busy for his orders were that there might be a buyer there while he was gone, and to show him the very best mile he could.

Bob’s friends timed him very carefully, and went home delighted. Gray Dan could beat that time by eight seconds or more. That man of Abe’s was so obliging, too, and they gave him a nice tip, and asked him as a special favor not to mention their visit, as they wanted to buy the horse as cheap as possible.

The race day came and found Abe gloriously drunk. ’Twas not a common thing, but it seemed to always happen when there was important business on hand.

“I ain’t got much money,” said Abe, “but, by gol, I’ll bet that lower eighty of mine agin a thousand dollars—never did like that farm—lost the best cow I ever owned in that pesky swamp.”

Abe had plenty of friends, and they gathered round trying every way to prevent his losing that farm. They knew him for a man that never whimpered when he lost his money, and Bob Langdon was a “sharper.”

“Skin ye, sure, Abe,” they said. But Abe turned a deaf ear to their entreaties.