"I will tell you all about it, mother," replied George, resolved upon making a clean breast of the affair. He went on to narrate how he arrived at the conclusion to ride the colt, not forgetting to say that he thought his mother would be pleased with the act if he succeeded in riding the fractious animal successfully. He described the manner of catching, bridling, and mounting the colt, as well as his furious plunging, rearing, and running; and he closed by the honest confession, "I did wrong, mother, and I am very sorry that I attempted to ride the colt. I hope that you will forgive me, and I will never be so disobedient again." "Forgive you, my son," his mother answered, evidently too well satisfied with the truthfulness of her boy to think much of her loss, "your frankness in telling me the truth is worth a thousand colts to me. Most gladly do I forgive you, and trust that the lesson you are taught by this unfortunate affair will go with you through life." In this incident we discover the daring, adventurous spirit of George. His courage was equal to his honesty. No act of his life approached so nearly to disobedience as this. Yet the spirit of disobedience was not in his heart. His mother had forbidden any one to ride the colt, but it was because she feared the colt would injure them. "If I can ride him successfully, and prove that he can be broken to the saddle, mother will be delighted," he reasoned. His thoughts were of pleasing instead of disobeying his mother. Were there any doubt on this point, his rehearsal of the whole story, with no attempt to shield himself from censure, together with his sincere desire to be forgiven, settles the question beyond controversy. After George left Mr. Williams' school, and had gone to reside with his brother Lawrence at Mount Vernon, a companion discovered in his journal several verses that breathed love for an unknown "lowland beauty." "What is this, George?" he asked. "Are you the poet who writes such lines as these?" And he read aloud the verses. "To be honest I must acknowledge the authorship," George answered, with his usual frankness. "But there is more truth than poetry in the production, I imagine." "I was suspicious of that," responded his friend. "That means that you fell in love with some bewitching girl, I conclude." "All of that," answered George, with no disposition to conceal anything. "That accounts for your poetical turn of mind," continued his friend. "I have heard it said that lovers take to poetry." "I don't know about that; but I confess to being smitten by the 'lowland beauty,'" was George's honest answer. "Who is she, and where does she live?" "That is of no consequence now; she is nothing to me, although she is much in my thoughts." "Did she respond to your professions of love?" "I never made any profession of love to her." "How is that?" "I am too young and bashful to take such a step; it would be foolish indeed."