The horse arrived. To The Hermitage girls, and several from Hathaway, who had come over to watch the proceedings, and who, if they had ridden at all, had mounted nothing larger than ponies, he was a huge beast. They watched with great interest while Virginia herself threw across his broad back her shining new saddle, and tightened the girths. “What a queer saddle!” “What’s that thing in front, Virginia?” “The saddle-horn.” “Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall against it and hurt you?” Virginia laughed. “Oh, no!” “See the ‘V. H.’ on the brass, Anne. Some style to you, Virginia!” “What’s the horse’s name, Mr. Hanly?” asked Virginia, preparing to mount. “Napoleon Bonaparte.” The girls laughed. Virginia swung herself into the saddle. To the admiring girls it seemed as though she had not touched the stirrup at all. She gathered her reins in one hand. “Remember, you’re to try him, Priscilla, when I get back,” she called, riding away. From one of the lower windows of the Hermitage, some, one cleared her throat. “Use extreme caution, Virginia,” some one called, but Virginia was already out of hearing. She had intended to ride down to the gate-posts, and then farther out into the country on the road which led away from Hillcrest. But by the time she came in sight of the stone posts she had quite decidedly changed her mind. Napoleon Bonaparte was hopeless! If he had not so annoyed her she might have laughed at his combination of gaits. His trot was torture; and it was only by the utmost urging that one could prevail upon him to canter. This urging, Virginia discovered to her surprise, was most effective when accomplished by yanking upon the reins, a proceeding which a Western horse would not have borne at all. His periods of willingness to canter were of short duration, for which the rider at the end of the period usually felt thankful. Moreover, he invariably stumbled when going down hill; and, to cap the climax, and add the finishing touch, he had the asthma, and, after a few moments of speed, sounded like a freight train. The gate-posts reached, Virginia was resolved upon one thing! She could not ride Napoleon! She would ride to the village stable and see if a change were possible. She turned Napoleon’s heavy head, and rode on, wondering what Donald would say if he could see her steed, and greatly hoping that the village stable contained some improvement. Mr. Hanly, who had driven down with the mail-carrier just ahead of her, met her at the stable door. “Anything the trouble, miss?” Virginia for the moment ignored his question. “Mr. Hanly, how old is Napoleon?” Mr. Hanly calculated. “About eighteen, miss.” “Eighteen!” cried Virginia. “Then I don’t wonder! Why, Mr. Hanly, he can’t go at all. He hasn’t a gait to his name! Besides, he wheezes terribly. Has he the asthma?” Mr. Hanly explained that for years Napoleon had been afflicted with a chronic cold; but that he had been in his day a good saddle-horse, and safe.