ting a
horse in a race rather more than the law allows.

But the deacon never thought of that. Forgetting everything except his
cherished ambition, he braced himself for the contest, took a twist
hold on the lines, sent a sharp, quick call to his horse, and let him
out for all that was in him. The squire followed suit and the deacon.
The road was wide and the snow was worn down smooth. The track
couldn't have been in better condition. The Hopkins colors were not
five rods behind the Hawkins colors as they got away. For half a mile
it was nip and tuck, the deacon encouraging his horse and the widow
encouraging the deacon, and then the squire began creeping up. The
deacon's horse was a good one, but he was not accustomed to hauling
freight in a race. A half-mile of it was as much as he could stand,
and he weakened under the strain.

Not handicapped, the squire's horse forged ahead, and as his nose
pushed up to the dashboard of the deacon's sleigh, that good man
groaned in agonized disappointment and bitterness of spirit. The widow
was mad all over that Squire Hopkins should take such a mean advantage
of his rival. Why didn't he wait till another time when the deacon was
alone, as he was? If she had her way she never would, speak to Squire
Hopkins again, nor to his wife, either. But her resentment was not
helping the deacon's horse to win.

Slowly the squire pulled closer to the front; the deacon's horse,
realizing what it meant to his master and to him, spurted bravely,
but, struggle as gamely as he might, the odds were too many for him,
and he dropped to the rear. The squire shouted in triumph as he drew
past the deacon, and the dejected Hawkins shrivelled into a heap on
the seat, with only his hands sufficiently alive to hold the lines. He
had been beaten again, humiliated before a woman, and that, too, with
the best horse that he could hope to put against the ever-conquering
squire. Here sank his fondest hopes, here ended his ambition. From
this on he would drive a mule or an automobile. The fruit of his
desire had turned to ashes in his mouth.

But no. What of the widow? She realized, if the deacon did not, that
she, not the squire's horse, had beaten the deacon's, and she was
ready to make what atonement she could. As the squire passed ahead of
the deacon she was stirred by a noble resolve. A deep bed of drifted
snow lay close by the side of the road not far in front. It was soft
and safe and she smiled as she l