Mrs. Dillon's face as she, too, entered the stall was tear-wet and
alight with a great tenderness.
A boy dodged his way to where we stood. His face and the front of his
blue and gold jacket were encrusted with dirt.
"You shoe-maker!" was Blister's scornful greeting.
"Honest to Gawd it wasn't my fault, Judge," the boy piped, sniffling.
"Honest to Gawd it wasn't! That sour-headed bay stud of Henderson's
swung his ugly butt under the mare's nose, 'n' just as I'm takin' back
so the dog won't kick a leg off her, that mutt of a starter lets 'em
go!"
"All right, sonny," said the judge. "You rode a nice race when you did
get away."
"Much obliged, sir. I just wanted to tell you," said the boy, and he
disappeared in the crowd as Judge Dillon joined those in the stall.
I stayed outside watching the group about Tres Jolie, and never had my
heart gone out to people more. Deeply I wished to keep them in my
life. . . I wondered if we would ever meet again. But pshaw!--I was
nothing to them. Well, I would go back to Cincinnati when they left in
the morning. . . .
"Can't we have you for a week at Thistle Ridge?" Mrs. Dillon stood
looking up at me.
"Why, that's very kind--" I stammered.
"The north pasture is a _wilderness_ this year, the _loaf of bread, the
jug of wine_ and the _bough_ are waiting. You can, of course, furnish
your own _verses_."
"The picture is almost perfect," I said, and glanced at Miss Goodloe.
"Virginia, dear--" prompted Mrs.
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