The following day, laughter and talk outside the stable announced that several persons had come to visit the horses. It chanced that among them was that brilliant quartette of men, known as the “Hartford Wits,” with Master Trumbull at their head. The latter stood chatting with a mere slip of a girl, dark-eyed and merry. In her hand she carried a fine, thread-lace kerchief--like gossamer films at dawn--and a pouf of gauze fell away from her snowy throat. She wore a perriot of flowered taffeta trimmed with herrisons, and from beneath her petticoat two little slippered feet peeped shyly. She was the most radiant being True had ever seen. Enraptured, he followed her with his eyes whichever way she turned. For all her beauty, she was yet strong and fine in her promise of fuller womanhood. There was a quick certainty about her every movement, and a steadiness of eye that showed no indeterminate character. Near her stood a Coxcomb, filling the air with odors of musk and powders, offensive to the nostrils of the little horse who was led past him. A secret loathing for this popinjay was born in his heart which he never outgrew. “Ah, Mistress Lloyd,” said the Coxcomb, drawling his words disagreeably, and waving a scented lace-bordered handkerchief, “what say you to Beautiful Bay? Have your kinsmen, Carroll of Carrollton, or the Hon. Edward Lloyd--or, for the matter of that, the dashing Tom Dulaney--anything finer at their country-seats in Maryland? Is there anything in Virginia, or South Carolina, to compare with our Beautiful Bay?” Smiling, the maid stepped in front of Beautiful Bay and held out a slender pink palm--like the petals of wild roses True had seen on his way from Springfield--on it lay a bit of maple sugar, and right proudly the old horse arched his neck and ate from her hand, picking up the crumbs with his firm but flexible lips, that his hard teeth might not scar the tender flesh. With her dainty kerchief she flicked his side lightly, replying evasively: “We’ve nothing _better groomed_.” Turning to her father she cried gaily, “Come hither, Daddy, dear, and touch his satin coat!” Beautiful Bay pranced a little to show his appreciation. “Have a care, my child,” warned her father. Her laughter rippled forth as she drew Beautiful Bay’s muzzle down for a caress. “It would not bite a maiden’s cheek, would it?” she cooed in his ready ear, and he trembled with joy at the sound. Young Mistress Lloyd’s “way with horses” was known from Maryland to Boston. The Coxcomb flicked his riding boot impatiently with his whip. This annoyed Beautiful Bay, who, thinking to please the maid, turned abruptly to him and bared his teeth, flattening his ears. The popinjay sprang to one side. “He can’t abide smells!” explained the hostler, apologetically, as he led the old horse back into his stable. And this was the first time that True saw Mistress Lloyd, of Maryland; though she had taken no notice of him, he never forgot it.