Marion’s joy was unbounded, for, time and again during the summer she had tried to make friends with the beautiful animal, only to find herself baffled at each attempt; and now he stood beside her and let her fondle and caress him as unreservedly as she would have caressed the little terrier, who stood beside her regarding the whole proceeding with a questioning look. “What do you think of him, Jingles?” she asked, and the terrier gave a little bark, which set jingling the tiny silver bells upon the collar, which had given him his name. Marion stood there caressing the horse for some time, enjoying his pranks and indulging in subdued rapture over his affectionate little demonstrations, for, once won over, he seemed determined to make amends for former shortcomings and licked her hand, nibbled at her ruffles, laid his head across her shoulder and showed in every possible way that he had taken her for his friend; when suddenly he raised his head and laid back his ears. “What is it, old fellow? What has disturbed you?” she asked, well knowing that she was not the cause of the half-frightened, half-angry look which had come into his eyes. Whatever it was he evidently regarded it with distinct disfavor, for his whole attitude changed and one would hardly have recognized in him the same animal which a moment before had so captivated Marion. Up went the head and a still more frightened look crept into his eyes as a tall, heavily-built man, with a stupid face and features which spoke only of coarseness and brutality, came into view. “Hi! do yer want ter be killed?” he shouted in a harsh voice. “Yer’d better keep away from that brute if yer don’t. He’s a perfect devil.” In an instant all the indignation and resentment in the young girl’s nature was aroused by this unjust accusation, for her love for horses was so intense that she seemed to hold almost magical power over them, and her friends used often to say that they believed she possessed some secret means of communicating to them her own thoughts and reading theirs. However that might be, certain it was that they all loved her, from her own beautiful little pony to the greatest forlornity that ever bore harness, and her word rarely failed to win a response of some sort. Ever since her father had rented their pretty summer home in May, she had watched the beautiful young animal driven by the owner of the adjoining property, and, during the horse’s occasional days of freedom in the pasture separated from her home by a high hedge, had striven to coax him to her. But with her keen intuitions she made up her mind that the animal was not kindly treated, and consequently lacked confidence in human beings. “But I shall yet win him over; see if I don’t,” she had said to her father as she sat at breakfast that very morning, “and I’ll find out the cause of his distrust as well; or my name is not Marion.”