In the fashion of the day her purple habit almost swept the ground as she sat her saddle with firm confidence; her wide hat and plume falling to her shoulders, framed her high-bred face. Her eyes sparkled--for the moment she almost seemed to have forgotten the nature of the stake! Hers was the embodiment of that Southern spirit of which Beautiful Bay had so often told True. Her grasp of the bridle rein was as gentle as a caress, but as firm as steel--showing, well, she would brook no foolishness from a horse. Against the sky the Green Mountains reared their heads, the pastureland on their sloping sides was patched here and there with cloud-shadows, and, where the sun’s rays slanted on the Winooski it glittered like a silver line in the valley. No wind, and a late rain, made the condition of the road perfect. Loitering about the smithy were a few men who roused themselves at sight of the Morgan cantering up with a lady on his back. Across the way, on the Inn porch, the sound of voices rose and fell in argument over the policies of Thomas Jefferson, the “Farmer” President; the purchase of Louisiana from the French, and such topics of the time. The idle men to whom the voices belonged sat in a row, their chairs tilted against the wall, but when they saw the Coxcomb swagger forth, they brought them down to the floor, simultaneously, and stared curiously. Silvertail was led up and the slender New Yorker swung himself lightly into the saddle. The idlers rose, gazed after the retreating horseman a moment, then strode with one accord down the Inn steps and on to the smithy, just in time to see the Coxcomb give Mistress Lloyd a grand sweep of his hat, as he said gallantly: “’Tis hard to beat so fair an antagonist, but the stake is one I must win!” “The race is yet to be run!” the lady made reply, smiling, securely. She released the fastenings of her plumed hat and tossed it to her father. “Catch, Daddy, dear! I ride with no frills and furbelows to-day! I wish I were that light Francis Buckle. Do you recall, Father, how he won last year at Epsom on Tyrant, the very worst horse that ever won a Derby?” “My daughter is almost as light as Buckle and the Morgan a better horse. We have nothing to fear!” So spoke Colonel Lloyd, bravely, and, patting Morgan’s long shoulder, he raised his hat with courtly grace and bade his daughter, “God-speed!” right gaily. And Mistress Lloyd? She laughed serenely--that same brook-like laugh of long ago; her lip did not quiver nor her voice tremble. With such spirit do men go into battle. She gathered the reins in her slim, bare hands--no gloves should come between her and Morgan’s mouth that day--and smiled at her antagonist, as if to say: “Morgan and I do not fear you and Silvertail!”