A darkey boy came up with a saddled mare, and the master took the reins, put foot in the stirrup and mounted to the saddle. He was a large, finely built man, fresh in the forties; kindness and determination filled the dark eyes, and the broad forehead was not unvisited by care. The hand that buckled the bridle was fat, smooth and white, very much given to hand-shaking and benedictions. As he was about to ride away, the jingling pole-chains of a vehicle arrested his attention. Looking around the curve, he saw a carriage coming up--a smartly dressed man stepped out, who asked: “Have I the honor--is this Major McDowell?” “That is my name, sir; and yours?” “Frost--Willard Frost,” returned the other, cordially extending his hand. The Major said, warmly: “Glad to know you, Mr. Frost; will you come in?” and the Major got down from his horse. “Thanks. I came with the view of buying a racer. Had you started away?” “Only down to the stables; you will come right over with me,” he proposed. “Very good. To go over a stock farm has been a pleasure I have held in reserve until a proper opportunity presented itself. Shall I ride or walk?” “Dismiss the carriage and be my guest for the day, I will have you a horse brought to ride.” “Oh, thank you, awfully,” returned the profuse stranger. And he indicated his acceptance by carrying out the host’s suggestion. “Call for me in time for the east-bound evening train,” he said, to the driver. Pretty soon the Major had the horse brought, and they rode down to the stables. “I think, Mr. Frost, I have heard your name before.” The other felt himself swelling. “I shouldn’t wonder; I am a dauber of portraits, from New York, and you I have heard quite a deal of, through young Milburn.” “Robert Milburn! Why bless the boy, I am quite interested in his career; he, too, had aspirations in that line. How did he turn out?” asked the Major, with considerable interest. “Well, he is an industrious worker, and may yet do some clever work, if drink doesn’t throw him.” “Drink!” exclaimed the other, “I can scarcely believe it. He impressed me as a sober youth, full of the stuff that goes to make a man. What a pity; I suppose it was evil associations.” “A pretty girl is at the bottom of it, I understand. You know, ‘whom nature makes most fair she scarce makes true.’” The Major re-adjusted his hat, and breathed deeply. “Ah! well, I don’t believe in laying everything on women. Maybe it was something else. Has he had no other annoyance, vexations or sorrow?” “Yes, he lost his mother in mid-winter, but I saw but little change in him; true, he alluded to it in a casual way,” remarked Frost, lightly. “But such deep grief seeks little sympathy of companions; it lies with a sensitive nature, bound within the narrowest circles of the heart; they only who hold the key to its innermost recesses can speak consolation. From what I know of Robert Milburn this grief must have gone hard with him.”