lances, her endearing
cajoleries, kept rising before her. She felt a stab of remorse; that she
could have let even the delights of reading and improvising compensate
for separation from such a darling pony. She had been selfish,
selfcentred. And now Gypsy was alone in that old barn, trembling and
neighing...

Finally, unable to endure the picture longer, she crept out to the hall.
She could hear mother and Aunt Nettie in the sitting-room--she couldn't
get an umbrella from the closet. So, without umbrella or hat, she stole
out the front door. Above was a continuous network of flame as though
someone were scratching immense matches all over the surface of heaven,
but doggedly she ran on. The downpour caught her, but on she sped
though rain and hail hammered her head, blinded her eyes, and drove her
drenched garments against her flesh.

She found Gypsy huddled quivering and taut in a corner of the stall.
She put her arms round the satiny neck, and they mutely comforted each
other. It was thus that Tess discovered them; she, too, had run to Gypsy
though it had taken longer as she had farther to go; but she was not so
wet as Missy, having borrowed an umbrella at the Library.

"_I_ didn't wait to get an umbrella," Missy couldn't forebear
commenting, slightly slurring the truth.

Tess seemed a bit annoyed. "Well, you didn't HAVE to go out in the rain
anyway. Guess I can be depended on to look out for my own pony, can't
I?"

But Missy's tactful rejoinder that she'd only feared Tess mightn't be
able to accomplish the longer distance, served to dissipate the shadow
of jealousy. Before the summer storm had impetuously spent itself,
the friends were crowded companionably in the feed-box, feeding the
reassured Gypsy peppermint sticks--Tess had met Arthur Simpson on her
way to the Library--and talking earnestly.

The earnest talk was born of an illustration Tess had seen in a magazine
at the Library. It was a society story and the illustration showed the
heroine in riding costume.

"She looked awfully swagger," related Tess. "Flicking her crop against
her boot, and a derby hat and stock-collar and riding-breeches. I think
breeches are a lot more swagger than habits."

"Do you think they're a little bit--indelicate?" ventured Missy,
remembering her mother's recent invective against tomboys.

"Of course not!" denied Tess disdainfully. "Valerie Jones in Macon City
wears 'em and she's awfully swell. Her father's a banker. She'