He could hardly keep back his tears at this, but, on looking around after the buggy had gone a little way, he saw his friends had returned to their marbles, and the thought struck him that he was already forgotten. Many and many a time after that he thought of his little companions and how quickly they had returned to their marbles. The editor of _The Countryman_ must have divined what was passing in the lad's mind (he was a quick-witted man and a clever one, too), for he tried to engage in conversation with Joe. But the boy preferred to nurse his loneliness, and would only talk when he was compelled to answer a question. Finally, the editor asked him if he would drive, and this Joe was glad enough to do, for there is some diversion in holding the reins over a spirited horse. The editor's horse was a large gray, named Ben Bolt, and he was finer than any of the horses that Joe had seen at the livery-stable. Feeling a new and an unaccustomed touch on the reins, Ben Bolt made an effort to give a new meaning to his name by bolting sure enough. The road was level and hard, and the horse ran rapidly for a little distance; but Joe Maxwell's arms were tough, and before the horse had gone a quarter of a mile the lad had him completely under control. “You did that very well,” said the editor, who was familiar with Ben Bolt's tricks. “I didn't know that little boys in town could drive horses.” “Oh, sometimes they can,” replied Joe. “If he had been scared, I think I should have been scared myself; but he was only playing. He has been tied at the rack all day, and he must be hungry.” “Yes,” said the editor, “he is hungry, and he wants to see his mate, Rob Roy.” Then the editor, in a fanciful way, went on to talk about Ben Bolt and Rob Roy, as if they were persons instead of horses; but it did not seem fanciful to Joe, who had a strange sympathy with animals of all kinds, especially horses and dogs. It pleased him greatly to think that he had ideas in common with a grown man, who knew how to write for the papers; and if the editor was talking to make Joe forget his loneliness he succeeded admirably, for the lad thought no more of the boys who had so quickly returned to their marbles, but only of his mother, whom he had last seen standing at the little gate smiling at him through her tears. As they drove along the editor pointed out a little log-cabin near the road. “That,” said he, “is where the high sheriff of the county lives. Do you know Colonel John B. Stith?” “Yes,” Joe replied; “but I thought he lived in a large, fine house. I don't see how he can get in at that door yonder.” “What makes you think he is too big for the door?” asked the editor. “Why, the way he goes on,” said Joe, with the bluntness of youth. “He is always in town talking politics, and he talks bigger than anybody.” [Illustration: 0038]