wind wallowed, and shook, with a petulant air, and a shiver as if in pain. The man looked away to the eastward, to where even rows of stalls lined his race-course—a kite-shaped track.
A darkey boy came up with a saddled mare, and the master took the reins, put foot in the stirrup and mounted to the saddle. He was a large, finely built man, fresh in the forties; kindness and determination filled the dark eyes, and the broad fore-*head was not unvisited by care. The hand that buckled the bridle was fat, smooth and white, very much given to hand-shaking and benedictions. As he was about to ride away, the jingling pole-chains of a vehicle arrested his attention. Looking around the curve, he saw a carriage coming up—a smartly dressed man stepped out, who asked:
"Have I the honor—is this Major McDowell?"
"That is my name, sir; and yours?"
"Frost—Willard Frost," returned the other, cordially extending his hand.
The Major said, warmly:
"Glad to know you, Mr. Frost; will you come in?" and the Major got down from his horse.
"Thanks. I came with the view of buying a racer. Had you started away?"
"Only down to the stables; you will come right over with me," he proposed.
