are the most trusty horses
he has. He has told me about the man you had, who said that those two
horses knew more than most 'humans.'"

"That was old Davids," said Mr. Harry; "when we had him, he was courting
a widow who lived over in Hoytville. About once a fortnight, he'd ask
father for one of the horses to go over to see her. He always stayed
pretty late, and on the way home he'd tie the reins to the whip-stock
and go to sleep, and never wake up till Cleve or Pacer, whichever one
he happened to have, would draw up in the barnyard. They would pass any
rigs they happened to meet, and turn out a little for a man. If Davids
wasn't asleep, he could always tell by the difference in their gait
which they were passing. They'd go quickly past a man, and much slower,
with more of a turn out, if it was a team. But I dare say father told
you this. He has a great stock of horse stories, and I am almost as bad.
You will have to cry 'halt,' when we bore you."

"You never do," replied Miss Laura. "I love to talk about animals. I
think the best story about Cleve and Pacer is the one that uncle told
me last evening. I don't think you were there. It was about stealing the
oats."

"Cleve and Pacer never steal," said Mr. Harry. "Don't you mean Scamp?
She's the thief."

"No, it was Pacer that stole. He got out of his box, uncle says, and
found two bags of oats, and he took one in his teeth and dropped it
before Cleve, and ate the other himself, and uncle was so amused that he
let them eat a long time, and stood and watched them."

"That was a clever trick," said Mr. Harry. "Father must have forgotten
to tell me. Those two horses have been mates ever since I can remember,
and I believe if they were separated, they'd pine away and die. You
have noticed how low the partitions are between the boxes in the horse
stable. Father says you wouldn't put a lot of people in separate boxes
in a room, where they couldn't see each other, and horses are just as
fond of company as we are. Cleve and Pacer are always nosing each other.
A horse has a long memory. Father has had horses recognize him, that
he has been parted from for twenty years. Speaking of their memories
reminds me of another good story about Pacer that I never heard till
yesterday, and that I would not talk about to any one but you and
mother. Father wouldn't write me about it, for he never will put a line
on paper where any one's reputation is concerned."

CHAPTER XXVI THE BOX