The spring that Little Sister was four years old, the General, as was his custom every morning before breakfast, went out to the barn and paddock to see the brood mares and colts. A stately brown mare, ankle-deep in blue grass, stood in the paddock nearest the house, under a great maple tree, its falling branches almost concealing her. She turned every now and then in a nervous, unhappy way, and, going up to the brown, new-born weakling of a colt lying in the blue grass, and which seemed unable to rise, she lowered her shapely head till her nozzle caressed it and then she whinnied softly. Something was very badly wrong and she knew it. The old General had been looking on for quite a while, frowning. When the General was sorry for anything he expressed his sympathy by a nervous strutting and swearing. When he was angry or fighting—as his battles in Virginia proved—he was as silent as a stone wall, and as staunch. _Then_ he never swore. "The damned little thing’s deformed, Jim," he said to the negro stable boy who was standing near. "Poor old Betty," and he rubbed his favorite saddle mare’s nose, "she is distressed." There was the sound of fox hunters coming up the pike. The hounds passed first, in a trot, nosing. Then the two hunters rode up to the rock fence where the General stood. One of them rode a docked hunter with ungainly long head and sloping rump and shoulders. Both horse and rider were unmistakably English; the man was middle-aged, portly, and handsome. The other rider was a young man riding a Tennessee saddle horse. "Good morning, General," said the Englishman, saluting, "can’t you join us to-day? Thought we’d exercise the pack a bit. The blooming old chap was out last night—over in the hills after a negro’s chickens—and we’ll take up his trail and have a little chase. Fawncy striking him in that stretch of Stone’s River bottom—aw—but we’ll have a chase!" "No—no—Goff," said the old General, impatiently, "I’m pestered to death with this little colt. I don’t know what to do with it." The hunter glanced over into the paddock. "O that old ambling saddle mare of yours! Aw—you know what we did with them in England—two centuries ago—anything with that Andalusian jennet blood in it—that old pacing gait—killed ’em—aw! exterminated ’em, sir! Always told you so. They’re fit for nothing but for old women to ride to church on." The younger man broke out into a boisterous laugh. His face was round and weak, his mouth wide, his eyes insincere, and his laugh was affected and betook of his eyes. "The Colonel’s right, Grandpa. Tell Jim to kill it an’ come on with us." The old General glanced at him quickly. "Braxton Bragg Rutherford, my son, when you enter West Point you will find it a rule there that very young officers do not try to impress their views on their superiors until asked."