They came to our city, or rather this little suburb of our city, soon afterward, and although it is well-nigh ten years now that they have been among us, there has never been a hint of trouble. Hers was a unique method, but it brought about the desired end. Verily it would seem that for some dinners, it is best for the cook to vanish, and leave the dishes to get themselves. I was meditating on this as I walked home that night, and the next morning, stirred by the recollection of all I had seen and felt, was moved to write out a story given me by a young man—a friend of mine, who lives at a great distance from here, on an olive ranch out of Los Gatos, California. I wish I could give you this little tale just as he told it. I can’t, I know, but I’ll do my best in trying. Mrs. Purblind dropped in just as I was reading it over to myself, before my study fire. “Do you remember my story about Duke?” I asked. “Yes, I liked it,” she said, “though I’m not very partial to dogs.” “I have one here about horses. I’ve written it out as nearly as possible as my friend told it to me, but so much flavor is lost when these things change hands. Here it is, and I think that the lamentation David sang over Saul, might head it. “A while ago we owned a couple of horses—work horses, and yet, by reason of the strength of their affections, they were lifted from out the commonplace, and enveloped with an atmosphere of romance that gave them the flavor of a story book, plumb full of princes and heroes. And by the way, Prince was the name of one of them, and he was a genuine hero, as you will see. His mate was called Nelly, and albeit she was as awkward and as angular as the ideal old maid, vastly inferior to Prince, who was a fine-looking chap, yet his admiration for her was unbounded. She cared for him, I’m sure, but she was less demonstrative; more coquettish, I would say, if she hadn’t been too homely a beast to think of, in connection with such a word.