“You’re not to be afraid, little Beth,” she said, putting her arm around the little girl. “We would not for the world let you go into danger. Trump will trot along with his big comrades as quietly as a kitten. We tried him before we bought him; Tim’s little girl rode him and she does not know how to ride. It is the easiest thing in the world to sit on that broad, steady back of his and he will never play you a trick.” “I seem to be too--too much little Beth Bristead, still, to ride in New York,” said Beth faintly. “Bless your heart, dear, pretend you’re Miss Elizabeth Bristead, then!” laughed Aunt Alida. “I think when you’re mounted confidence will come. Besides, we are going over country roads just as soon as we can reach them.” Aunt Alida’s prophecy came true. When Beth was mounted on her entrancing gift, with her lines in her gauntleted hand, her stock held at precisely the correct angle, as she was bidden to hold it, and especially when she found how easily Uncle Jim could reach down from his splendid chestnut Virginian and touch Trump’s bridle, and when she heard that rhythmic tread of horses’ feet and knew that her own, her _own_ pony’s feet made part of it, horsemanship flowed into her like an inspiration. To her uncle’s satisfaction and Dirk’s undisguised pride she held herself bravely erect, her cheeks reddened with excitement, her eyes were almost black, her lips parted with her rapid breathing and she laughed aloud as, having gained a quiet avenue, the horses began to trot and plucky little Trump kept up with them, in spite of his difference in length of legs. It was a wonderful ride, that first one! Though it was but the first of many to come, each a rapture, none other ever could be that first one of all, with Trump newly owned. Oh, to watch those quick little ears, that tossing, ambitious little head and to know they were _her_ pony’s ears, it was _her_ pony’s head! To feel the strong, warm body bearing her along and to know that as long as life was in it that was to be its duty! To pull off her glove and pat the sturdy neck, the thick mane, and to know the whole wonderful little fellow was her Trump, her own, Beth Bristead’s! Suddenly Beth lost her fear of moving in her saddle and bent forward to lay her face on the mat of mane. “Oh, Trump, my darling, my darlingest! How I love you! And you are mine to have and to hold, for better or for worse, till death doth us part! And you won’t die, my preciousest, because I’ll love you so you can’t!” she whispered close to the ear that she believed moved in response to her words and not because her breath tickled it.