period developed into the most engrossing one yet known to either himself or to Judy.
And in the meantime Annie continued sad and neglected. Joe, the stable-boy, noticing her moping condition, said one day to Kit:
"'Pears like she don't feel first rate."
Then Kit went into the stall where Joe was grooming her and rubbed her nose and talked to her.
"You are getting proud, old girl, and lazy. That is all that ails you. That 'bike' is the greatest friend you ever had. You can take it easy now for the rest of your natural life—a nice comfortable pasture, plenty to eat, and nothing to do. Oh, you lucky old lady! Give her a bran-mash, Joe; that will put her all right." And he was gone.
Annie's soft brown eyes followed Kit's figure up the lane with an appealing look. A bran-mash? What was a bran-mash to a faithful old friend, whose only illness was a longing for the baby boy who eight years before had first been put astride her back and who every day since, until these last miserable weeks, had fondled her and ridden her and driven her?
How should she ever make him understand?
Was a mere machine to supplant a lifetime's devotion?
Her friend, indeed! She would not have answered for that friend's safety had it been just then within reach of two well-shod hoofs. Nothing to do for the rest of her natural life! There was the rub. She had always been such a necessary member of the family—so willing, so proud of her usefulness! And now, in the very hey-day of her powers, to be cast aside! Had she failed to carry him fast enough? She would challenge any wheel made to beat her. Had she ever rebelled at distance or time? Never! And yet—and yet No more mad rides down the river bank!
