“Ugh!” said the girl. “It seems as if I never should get warm.” She leaned forward, and stretched her hands toward the stove, and he presently rose from the rocking-chair in which he sat, somewhat lower than she, and lifted her sack to throw it over her shoulders. But he put it down and took up his overcoat. “Allow my coat the pleasure,” he said, with the ease of a man who is not too far lost to be really flattering. “Much obliged to the coat,” she replied, shrugging herself into it and pulling the collar close about her throat. “I wonder you didn't put it on the sorrel. You could have tied the sleeves around her neck.” “Shall I tie them around yours?” He leaned forward from the low rocking-chair into which he had sunk again, and made a feint at what he had proposed. But she drew back with a gay “No!” and added: “Some day, father says, that sorrel will be the death of us. He says it's a bad color for a horse. They're always ugly, and when they get heated they're crazy.” “You never seem to be very much frightened when you're riding after the sorrel,” said Bartley. “Oh, I've great faith in your driving.” “Thanks. But I don't believe in this notion about a horse being vicious because he's of a certain color. If your father didn't believe in it, I should call it a superstition; but the Squire has no superstitions.” “I don't know about that,” said the girl. “I don't think he likes to see the new moon over his left shoulder.” “I beg his pardon, then,” returned Bartley. “I ought to have said religions: the Squire has no religions.” The young fellow had a rich, caressing voice, and a securely winning manner which comes from the habit of easily pleasing; in this charming tone, and with this delightful insinuation, he often said things that hurt; but with such a humorous glance from his softly shaded eyes that people felt in some sort flattered at being taken into the joke, even while they winced under it. The girl seemed to wince, as if, in spite of her familiarity with the fact, it wounded her to have her father's scepticism recognized just then. She said nothing, and he added, “I remember we used to think that a redheaded boy was worse-tempered on account of his hair. But I don't believe the sorrel-tops, as we called them, were any more fiery than the rest of us.” Marcia did not answer at once, and then she said, with the vagueness of one not greatly interested by the subject, “You've got a sorrel-top in your office that's fiery enough, if she's anything like what she used to be when she went to school.” “Hannah Morrison?” “Yes.” “Oh, she isn't so bad. She's pretty lively, but she's very eager to learn the business, and I guess we shall get along. I think she wants to please me.” “_Does_ she! But she must be going on seventeen now.” “I dare say,” answered the young man, carelessly, but with perfect intelligence. “She's good-looking in her way, too.” “Oh! Then you admire red hair?”