Thus the first weeks of his stay at Randolph were passed. As winter set in his sensitive ears detected, high in the air, a snapping of the cold which disturbed him no little, owing to his fear of storms. One night, when this sound was more audible than it had ever been, he pawed and stamped so restlessly that Justin Morgan came to find out what the matter was. As the stable door opened there flashed through it a flood of crimson light. In the North great shafts pierced from the horizon high into the centre of the heavens. Poor True gave a moan of fright and crowded into a corner of his stall--it looked so like that awful fire in which old Piebald Ceph had lost his life. Master Morgan closed the door hurriedly. “Why, you poor horse,” he said, kindly, “’tis nothing but the Northern lights. Steady, now, steady.” ’Twas not so much the words as the tone and the gentle pats on his shoulder that pacified True. He felt at once that his master would take care of him and calmed himself like a sensible animal. When he was quieted Justin Morgan climbed into the hay-loft and down a ladder on the other side of the barn rather than let the light shine through the door again, which was very considerate and no doubt True was proportionately grateful. Those were wild, unsettled days in Vermont, and tales of Indians pillaging and burning were so fresh in the minds of the pioneers that a certain feeling of insecurity remained, ready to be roused into action any minute. The forests were dense and dark, the farms scattered and lonely and the life primitive. Neighbors depended solely upon each other for assistance in times of trouble or danger. Dame Margery Griswold--daughter of a friendly Indian chief, and wife of a white settler--was one of the fine and noble characters of Randolph. Wise in the ways of medicines and herb-teas, she was constantly called upon to administer to the sick, and never failed to respond, rain or shine, snow or sleet. One cold, blustery night there came a need for her to go across the mountain to see a child lying sick of a fever. When she called upon her old white mare she was met by a flat refusal; the poor old nag was crippled with rheumatism and could not rise from her stable floor where she lay on her bedding of dried leaves. Dame Margery therefore consulted Uncle Peter Edson, to whom all turned for advice, he being the oldest man in the town and a Deacon in the church. Not long after this Master Morgan was awakened by a smart rapping on his door. “Who’s there?” he called, sleepily. “Wake, Friend Justin,” cried Uncle Peter, for ’twas he. “Dame Margery would borrow your horse Figure for the night. She is sent for to doctor a sick child.”