Lord Frogmore had always been cheerful, but now he was gayer than ever--for to be sure Mary soon recovered from her momentary illness which was more nerves than anything else, though she was so far from being a nervous subject. She was taken the greatest care of during that summer, and the old lord looked twenty years younger. He whistled when he went out for his walks, he had a smile and a pleasant word for everybody. He grew absolutely juvenile in his extreme satisfaction with himself and everything about him. “You’d say fifty-five at the very most to see him kicking along the road like a new-married man,” said the old woman at the gates, who was just Lord Frogmore’s age, and “expected” a great-grandchild in a week or two. Nothing could exceed his satisfaction and complacency. He reconciled himself to Duke by presenting the boy with a pony all to himself to take home, which had been Duke’s chief earthly desire--and took him to the stables to see the “leggy” colt, which was Uncle Ralph’s present, and which had grown into a tough but not lovely hunter, justifying his original owner’s prophecy. “Do you think Aunt Mary could ride this, Duke?” the old gentleman asked, with a chuckle. “Aunt Mary!” cried the boy with a shout, “she’s frightened of Polo when he’s fresh.” “So she is,” said Lord Frogmore. “I shouldn’t wonder if she let you ride this one when your father takes you out with him.” “Oh, Uncle Frogmore! why he could step over the big fence without jumping at all,” cried Duke in ecstasy. The old lord was kind to the boy, kinder than he had ever been before.