tud-groom. Patsy was wont to say that when he found a
horse wicked he looked for the man. There was no evidence of the man
so far as their record of Mustapha went. He had been bought from a
little old man as pink as a baby and with a smiling innocence of
aspect, so small that when Mustapha tossed his head the little man,
hanging on by the rope-bridle, was lifted in the air and dropped again.

"That crathur," said Patsy to himself, "would never have done the horse
a wrong. I wonder where he got him from an' who had the rearin' of
him. I'm surprised the master cared to handle him. He's as like as
two pins to Spitfire. Where was it they said Spitfire went? Some
mountainy man bought her for a five-pound note I've heard tell."

He pulled out a fine red handkerchief and mopped his forehead with it.
He'd had two hours of it trying to "insinse some rayson" into
Mustapha's head. He had not made much progress. Mustapha was still
kicking and squealing in his loose-box. The sounds reached Patsy Kenny
where he sat on his log and made him sad. Gentle as he was he thought
he had an understanding of even Mustapha. The ears back, the whites of
the eyes showing, the wild nostrils, the tense muscles under the skin
of black satin, were something of an unhappiness in his mind. Some
time or other Mustapha must have been ill-treated.

He put his head down on his hand. He was really tired out. So he was
unaware of the approach over the grass towards him of two people till
their shadows fell upon him and he looked up.

"That brute has taken it out of you, Patsy," said the elder man, who
had a curious elegance of face and figure. Years had not coarsened Sir
Shawn O'Gara. He was still slight and active. His white hair was in
almost startling contrast with the darkly foreign face, the small black
moustache, the dark eyes, almost too large and soft and heavily lashed
for a man's eyes.

The boy who was with him was very unlike his father. He had taken
after his mother, who had once been Mary Creagh, of whom some one had
said she had the colour of the foxes. The boy had his mother's reddish
brown eyes and hair, something of the same colour underlying his fair
skin as it did hers. He had the white, even teeth, the flashing and
radiant smile. Mary Creagh had been a beautiful girl, with a look of
motherliness even in her immature girlhood. As a wife and mother that
aspect of her beauty had developed. Many a strange confidenc