like parchment and a silly, vacant face as unwrinkled as that of a child. As he seated himself beside her, the empty, round blue eyes opened a little and stared at him without any sign of recognition. He took one of the thin, blue-veined hands in his, but it only lay there, lifeless, while he sat, silent and gentle, watching her.
Once he spoke, calling her wistfully by name, "Agnes"; but there was no sign of an answer, not so much as a faint flickering of the white, transparent lids.
And so for an eternity he sat thus in the thick darkness, enveloped by the sickly odor of medicines, until he was roused by a knock at the door and the sudden glare of daylight as it opened and Miss Egan, fixing her flashing and teethy smile, came in and said: "The fifteen minutes is up, Mr. Pentland."
When the door had closed behind him he went away again, slowly, thoughtfully, down the worn stairs and out into the painfully brilliant sunlight of the bright New England spring. Crossing the green terrace, bordered with great clumps of iris and peonies and a few late tulips, he made his way to the stable-yard, where Higgins had left the red mare in charge of a Polish boy who did odd tasks about the farm. The mare, as beautiful and delicate as a fine steel spring, stood nervously pawing the gravel and tossing her handsome head. The boy, a great lout with a shock of yellow hair, stood far away from her holding the reins at arm's length.
At the sight of the two the old man laughed and said, "You mustn't let her know you're afraid of her, Ignaz."
The boy gave up the reins and retired to a little distance, still watching the mare resentfully. "Well, she tried to bite me!" he said sullenly.
Quickly, with a youthful agility, John Pentland swung himself to her back . . . quickly enough to keep her from sidling away from him. There was a short, fierce struggle
