There was no response. His heart sank; a sudden anxiety seized him. Finally Caesar appeared and purred a soft welcome as he rubbed against his old friend’s leg. True made hurried enquiries as to his mother’s welfare, while Master Morgan gave “halloo!” for the inmates of the house. “Alas,” mewed the cat, sitting down to wash his face, “things have changed since you went away. Your mother is sold into the South----” “Into the South!” interrupted True, but Caesar saw nothing exciting in that, and continued, placidly: --“and our master lies ill of the fever, our mistress ever at his side and no one to notice _me_ at all. The stables are lonely, even the rats and mice have moved away for lack of food, for the garden and farm are grown up in weeds.” And he wiped his paw surreptitiously across his eye, curled himself up on a beam and fell asleep. The responsive tears filled True’s eyes, and he would have roused the cat with other questions but at the moment Mistress Whitman opened the kitchen door. She offered Master Morgan friendly greeting, but when she caught sight of True she ran quickly out and threw her arms about his neck. Her old pet was equally glad to see her and thrust his muzzle into the folds of the white kerchief about her neck and made little affectionate sounds of greeting in reply. “Come, True, little pony,” she whispered, “he has almost grieved himself to death at parting from you. The very sight of you will make him better.” Without ado, she led the horse right up the two stone steps and into the kitchen where once he and his mother had stolen soup out of the pot which was even now swinging from the crane. As he recalled the incident he thrust his wide nostrils forward, but, smiling sadly, Mistress Whitman drew him to the inner door. His shod hoofs made an unseemly stamping, and a feeble voice from beyond called: “Nay, wife, there must be something wrong!” Mistress Whitman opened the door wide and let light into the darkened room. “Instead, dear husband, ’tis very right,” she cried, cheerily, “for here is our precious colt come to visit with you.” True found himself in a small, bare room, standing beside a cot, and, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he recognized his old master, wasted with illness, lying helpless before him, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright with fever. The affectionate little horse nosed among the quilts, trying to express his joy at seeing his old friend and at the same time his grief at finding him so weak and ill. “Wife,” called the sick man, presently, “wife, fetch me some maple sugar and do go into the barn and give the colt all there is left of food there.” “I will pay you well, Mistress,” said Master Morgan, from the doorway.