As though to give Mr. Townsend a hint of what his expectations might realize, the frisky beast at that moment elected to put the laws of gravity to a crucial test. With one bound he leaped into the air, struck out wildly, plunged forward, and took about three minutes to recover his equilibrium, evidently convinced that, so far as history has recorded, Pegasus was not the only horse capable of flying through space. “What a crazy thing he is!” exclaimed Isabel. “Why didn’t you bring Old Nick? Dear old fellow! How I want to see him! Is he all right?” “I think so, I think so,” said her father hurriedly. Then Mr. Townsend became much occupied with the colt, and a few moments later home was reached, where, amid warm greetings, Old Nick was, for a time, forgotten. A few hours later Isabel came in from the stables, where she had been on a tour of inspection, with blank dismay pictured upon her face. “Daddy,” she cried, bursting into the room, “where is Old Nick? The men say that he is sold, but I won’t believe them. He isn’t, is he?” and her voice was half-choked in sobs. Mr. Townsend looked up from his desk, and a peculiar expression crept into his face--an expression partly of defiance, partly of self-assertion, partly of shame--but he made no answer. Isabel came toward him as one who doubted her senses, and laying a hand on each of his shoulders peered into his face, with doubt and astonishment on her own. “Papa, of course you wouldn’t sell Old Nick! Why, he has been mine as long as I can remember, and next to you and mamma, I love him better than anything in the world. Where _is_ he? Please tell me.” “Isabel, listen to me. You are no longer a child. You are nearly seventeen years old, and you ought to be capable of looking upon things from a practical standpoint. Yes, Nick is sold. I had an excellent offer from a man who was going through the country about six weeks ago, buying up horses. Nick is seventeen years old if he is a day, and such a chance could never be expected again. Mamma wanted to send you a set of furs for Christmas, and the means to purchase them had literally walked to our door. The seventy-five dollars paid for Nick bought them, and you, certainly, should be the last to complain.” Mr. Townsend picked up his pen as though the matter were dismissed forever. But he little knows his daughter. Her hands fell from his shoulders and she slowly backed away from him, while into her big gray eyes came a look which told of a resolve born of an outraged spirit. CHAPTER II “I WANT TO BUY OLD NICK.” If Henry Townsend had expected his daughter “to make a fuss,” he was more than agreeably disappointed. She said not one word, but turned and left the room.