BREAKFAST, with Cecilia to preside, was bright as summer sunrise. Little Cecilia had her bouquet of dewy roses for father and friend. The whiff of coffee perfume was like a gale of Araby the blest. Just as the meal was ended, a servant announced that Mr. Bishop was outside with a horse. They sallied forth to inspect it.  
Mr. Bishop was a flashy man, not quite jockey, not quite farmer, rather of the squireen type. He had associated enough with gentlemen to know how they permit themselves to slang and swear. He was, however, better than a gentleman jockey, who, like a gentleman stool-pigeon, is doubly dangerous. But no jockey could say more for the black horse than was evident in every bend of his body, in every tense muscle and chord of the delicate limbs.
 
“He is high-couraged, sir,” said Bishop, “and has played the devil with some folks. You seem to know how to handle a horse.”
 
Waddy ran his hand over the legs, as free from knots as a Malacca joint; then standing at his head,[98] he let the colt nibble at a bit of moist biscuit and took the opportunity quietly to look at his mouth.
 
“He seems all right,” he said, at last. “Move him a little, if you please.”
 
Bishop started him off. The stride and spring were smooth as a raw oyster; both told of speed and power.
 
“There’s no mistake about him,” said Bishop, bringing him back. “I meant to have kept him to ride myself, but times is gittin’ hard [i. e., brandy has gone up]. Besides, my daughter, Sally, is gittin’ sicker an’ I’ll have to go south with her next winter and shan’t need no horse, an’ ’ll want the rocks. Mr. Tootler knows the horse an’ kin tell you what he did when we tried him on the course. If you buy him an’ ’ll keep dark, you’ll be mighty apt to take ’em down that tries to run with you.”
 
“I’ll take him,” said Ira, without more parley. “Tootler, will you give Mr. Bishop your check?”
 
While Tootler was drawing the check, Cecilia came out with a small basket. She offered it to Bishop.
 
“I’ve been putting up some jelly for Miss Sally,” she said. “It may tempt her. How is she to-day?”
 
“The best to be said,” replied Bishop, “is she ain’t gittin’ no wus. The doctor says she ain’t so much sick as down in the mouth. She’s off her feed an’ seems to have got suthin’ on her mind. P’r’aps[99] it’s religion. She wants me to stop swearin’; but I’ll be durned if I kin. I wish you’d come over an’ see her ag’in, ma’am. You’re the only one as does her any good.”
 
He spoke with evident feeling and sincerity, and Mrs. Tootler promised to go.
 
A moment later, Mr. Tootler emerged from the house and handed Bishop the check. The black was transferred to Mr. Waddy.
 
“I’m sorry to part with him,” said Bishop, real regret in his voice; “but you look like you’d treat him well, sir. He ain’t used to the whip. He’s never been struck but once, when that damn Belden talked of buyin’ him. Belden handled him kind er careless an’ then give him a crack. I guess he got dropped easy—the fool! He’s had a spite agin the horse ever since, an’ I’m kind er glad to git him out o’ the way of any mean trick. Belden’s a kind o’ feller not to fergit it when any critter’s been too much fer him—horse or man or woman, either.”
 
He looked at the horse for a moment, and then walked away, turning to look back once or twice regretfully, but consoling himself by the expensive check, subscribed by a man well known in State Street.
 
“Don’t you remember Sally Bishop?” asked Tootler of his friend. “A very handsome girl she was—poor thing!—dying now. Seems to me you used to go with Belden to see her.”
 
[100]“I knew her slightly,” replied Waddy, in a tone the reverse of encouraging. “It’s a bad thing to have intimacies with second-rate women. If you have a saddle,” he continued, “that will fit my horse, I’ll ride him in to town now. By the way, what shall I name him? He’s as black as death—‘mors, pallida mors’—that’s it—Pallid! I’ll call him by rule of contraries. Pal, for short; we shall be pals, eh, old boy?” and he caressed the horse, who responded in kind, instinctively knowing a friend.
 
Pallid was larger than Cecilia, but her saddle was well enough for the short ride. Tootler was obliged to be in the wool again early. Jefferson Davis not being present to preside over the cavalry, the gardener laid down the shovel and the hoe and took up the curry-comb. Pallid was, of course, resplendent for the sale, as a bride is when her bargain is ratified.
 
Waddy was proud of his acquisition. Every fine fellow has something of the caballero in his nature. My friend, Misogynist, says a horse is the most beautiful animal.
 
“Woman! glorious woman!” I suggest enthusiastically.
 
“Good to look at,” M. admits, “but bad to go. Be kind to the horse, and he is grateful and will not try to harm you. But woman—the more you let her have her head, the more she will try to throw you. Bah! my kingdom for a horse; he shall be king; no[101] bedizened woman sovereign for me! Look at his smooth, brilliant coat—no pomade there! See that easy motion; incedat rex. Think of his simple toilet! two blankets, thick and thin. Yes, noble comrade! I will be no carpet knight, nor dwindle away with ridiculous sighs before shrines of plastic dough images, or of models of brassiness, but with thee will I away over boundlessness. Plains vast as the sea await our gallop. Charge!”
 
So far Misogynist—I will add that of the two classes of animals, horses are cheaper to keep, and when you have them, are yours, and not the property of the first admirer.
 
The gardener brought Cecilia to the door, shining from her morning toilet. Lady Cecilia, with the lesser lady, came to bid the guest adieu. Lady and child bore flowers of midsummer to be rus in urbe for the gentlemen. Cecilia was charming in her morning dress. As she said good-bye, the sparkle of her brown eyes was brighter, the blush warmer, the voice more musical, the shy tremor of friendliness more graceful. “Happy Tootler!” thought Waddy; “one of the rare few who are appointed to be illustrations to others of happiness.”
 
“You will come again soon,” said Cecilia. “A room in our house has become yours. You must inhabit it to keep ghosts from colonising. You too, perhaps, are in some danger of companionship of glooms, which are certainly as bad as ghosts. C............