as been well trained," said Miss Laura.

"I have brought him up carefully," said Mr. Harry. "Really, he has been
treated more like a dog than a colt. He follows me about the farm and
smells everything I handle, and seems to want to know the reason of
things."

"Your mother says," replied Miss Laura, "that she found you both asleep
on the lawn one day last summer, and the colt's head was on your arm."

Mr. Harry smiled and threw his arm over the colt's neck. "We've been
comrades, haven't we, Fleetfoot? I've been almost ashamed of his
devotion. He has followed me to the village, and he always wants to go
fishing with me. He's four years old now, so he ought to get over those
coltish ways. I've driven him a good deal. We're going out in the buggy
this afternoon, will you come?"

"Where are you going?" asked Miss Laura.

"Just for a short drive back of the river, to collect some money for
father. I'll be home long before tea time."

"Yes, I should like to go," said Miss Laura "I shall go to the house and
get my other hat."

"Come on, Fleetfoot," said Mr. Harry. And he led the way from the
pasture, the colt following behind with me. I waited about the veranda,
and in a short time Mr. Harry drove up to the front door. The buggy was
black and shining, and Fleetfoot had on a silver-mounted harness that
made him look very fine. He stood gently switching his long tail to keep
the flies away, and with his head turned to see who was going to get
into the buggy. I stood by him, and as soon as he saw that Miss Laura
and Mr. Harry had seated themselves, he acted as if he wanted to be off.
Mr. Harry spoke to him and away he went, I racing down the lane by his
side, so happy to think he was my friend. He liked having me beside him,
and every few seconds put down his head toward me. Animals can tell
each other things without saying a word. When Fleetfoot gave his head a
little toss in a certain way, I knew that he wanted to have a race.
He had a beautiful even gait, and went very swiftly. Mr. Harry kept
speaking to him to check him.

"You don't like him to go too fast, do you?" said Miss Laura.

"No," he returned. "I think we could make a racer of him if we liked,
but father and I don't go in for fast horses. There is too much said
about fast trotters and race horses. On some of the farms around here,
the people have gone mad on breeding fast horses. An old farmer out in
the country had a common cart-horse that he suddenly foun