It was a warm September afternoon “down to the cape,” as the local phrase runs. The drowsy little hamlet consisted, first, of a small wooden railway station, not unlike an immense drygoods box in which some frugal-minded Yankee had cut holes to serve for a door and two windows, and then in a moment of reckless extravagance had painted a dull red; next, a church, which appeared to have been dropped there by mistake; and last, of a few farmhouses, which had no doubt been there since the days of Governor Bradford. Over the door of the station was the sign “Post Office,” and, consequently, one had reason to believe that “Uncle Sam” had some claim upon this sleepy little settlement. Not a store was to be seen; not a sign of business anywhere. Even the railroad station was deserted; for no train would come up from Province Town until six o’clock, and the one going “down cape” stopped only on signal. So the station agent, who was also postmaster, was absent in a distant field, busily stacking corn. The sun beat down upon the sandy road from which the hot air arose in quivering waves. Across from the station lay a large field surrounded by a “post-rail” fence, and standing by the bars, with her head hanging lazily over the topmost one, was an old gray mare with her colt beside her. She seemed half asleep, for her eyes were closed and occasionally her head would nod exactly like that of a drowsy old woman, and bring her throat bumping against the rail. That served to rouse her for a moment, but she would presently slip off again into dreamland, perhaps to relive the days when she had been able to skim over the ground with the best of her kind; for “Gray Lady” came of famous stock, and the colt at her side gave fair promise of inheriting his mother’s good qualities. Just now, however, he seemed principally made up of legs and a scraggy mane; but the eyes below the “bristle” were wonderfully soft, and looked out between the bars with the half-mischievous, half-pleading look one often sees in a child. The delicate little muzzle was as soft as a moleskin. The tiny lips nibbled at the lichens on the rail, and, not finding these particularly satisfying, began to fuss about the mother’s warm neck, creeping gradually upward until they reached her head, where they found a tempting plaything, and she was rudely roused from her reveries by having her ear sharply pinched. With a squeal she jerked her head out of reach, and the colt, as if highly elated with his prank, went careering over the field, his long legs executing some very extraordinary feats; for he was only six months old. As he pranced off a shrill whistle was heard, and a moment later a boy, about twelve years of age, came down the dusty road, dragging behind him a nondescript sort of vehicle evidently of home manufacture, since it consisted of a plank fastened upon the wheels of a baby carriage.