and without a touch of self-consciousness,
binding the apron about his waist; and to Boy at least he appeared, so
clad, something quite other than ludicrous.

"Can you manage it, d'you think?" she asked in her serious way.

"I guess," answered the young man.

He blew elaborately on his hands, made belief to lick them, and bowed
his back to the lifting. There were no weak spots in that young body. It
was good all through.

Strong as he was tender, he gathered the little creature. A moment it
sprawled helplessly in his arms, all legs and head. Then he bundled it
into the barrow.

The old mare whinnied.

"Put the rug over her head so she can't see," said Mrs. Woodburn.

The foal stood a moment in the barrow, then it collapsed, lying like a
calf with a woolly tail, its long legs projecting over the side.

Silver grasped the handles of the barrow.

"Is it all right?" asked Boy.

"I guess," replied the young man, and trundled his load away down the
hill.

The girl walked beside the barrow, one hand steadying the foal, who
reared an uncanny head.

They passed through the yard, jolted noisily over the cobbles, and
turned into a great cool loose-box, deep in moss-litter.

"I'll go and get the bottle," said the girl. "George, just run and bring
a couple of armfuls of litter-grass off the stack and pile it in that
corner."

When she returned with the bottle, the barrow was empty, and the foal
lay quiet on a heap of brown grass in the corner.

It whinnied and essayed to stand.

"It's coming, honey," said Boy in her deep, comforting voice.

The foal sucked greedily and with quivering tail.

From outside in the yard came the pleasant clatter of horses' feet on
the cobbles.

The string was returning.

In another moment Old Mat was standing in the door of the loose-box,
grunting to himself, as he watched the little group within.

Boy, in her long riding-coat, stood in the dim loose-box, her fair hair
shining, tilting the bottle, while the foal, with lifted head and
ecstatic tail, sucked.

Silver, still in his shirt-sleeves, watched with folded arms.

"Colt foal I see," grunted the old man. "That's a little bit o' better.
Four-Pound-the-Second, I suppose you'll call him."

BOOK III

SILVER MUG

CHAPTER XXI

The Berserker Colt

On the morning that Make-Way-There had done his gallop Old Mat had noted
that a change was coming over Boy.

She was ceasing to be a child, and was becoming a