"What d'you think about it, Boy?" he asked in his grave, kind way. "I shall go," blurted the girl. "But I shall win all the same." "Win what?" asked the vicar. "_That_," said Boy, and flashed on her way. When the day of parting came, word was sent round to the stables that nobody was to be in them at twelve o'clock. At that hour a slight cold figure crossed the yard swiftly, and entered the stables. The key was turned in the door. There was no sound from within, except the movement of the horses, to whom the girl was bidding good-bye. Half an hour later the door was opened, and she came out, cold and frosty as she had entered. Monkey Brand, standing in the door of the saddle-room, keeping guard over the stable-lads lest they should peep and pry, saw her come. "She look very grim," he afterward reported to Old Mat. "Keeps a stiff lip for a little 'un," whispered a lad peeping from behind the jockey's shoulder. Monkey Brand rounded on him. "If you'd 'alf her 'eart," he said, "you might be mistook for a man." For three weeks thereafter Putnam's knew the girl no more; and it seemed that the soul had died out of the place. Monkey Brand moped, and swore the horses moped, too. "When I goes round my 'orses in the mornin' they look at me like so many bull-oxes askin' to be slaughtered," he said. "Never see sich a sight. Never!" Old Mat for once was glum. His eye lost its twinkle, and his walk its famous lilt. Mr. Haggard was genuinely sorry for the old man. "Miss her, Mr. Woodburn?" he asked, stopping the trainer in the village street. "Miss her!" cried the other. "Mr. Haggard, there's nothing about Hell you can teach _me_. I knows it all." He waved a significant hand and walked away, his heart in his boots. Of all the party at Putnam's, Mrs. Woodburn only seemed undisturbed. Unmoved by the gloom of those about her, glum looks, short answers, and the atmosphere of a November fog, she went about her business as before. Boy's history during those weeks has never been written, and never will be. What she did, said, thought, and suffered during that time--and what others did, said, thought, and suffered because of her--none but the Recording Angel knows. The girl herself never referred to the point; but were reference made to it, she winced like a foal at the touch of the branding-iron. The episode happily lasted but three weeks. At the end of that time, on a Saturday morning, one of the lads had ridden the Fly-away filly over to Lewes. There in the High Street the girl swooped on him. "Get off!" she ordered. The lad, who feared Miss Boy as he did the devil, obeyed with alacrity. "Put me up!" Boy ordered. Again the lad obeyed, and the next thing he was aware of was the swish of the filly's thoroughbred tail as she disappeared round the corner of the street. An hour later the girl clattered into the yard at Putnam's, the filly in a foam. Monkey Brand, a chamois leather in his hand, came running out. "Miss Boy!" he cried.