“Monday, sweet biscuit,” I began; “Tuesday, sugar; Wednesday, carrots; Thursday, an apple; Friday, cracked corn; Saturday, stale bread and molasses; Sunday, marshmallows.” “What are marshmallows?” asked Thunderbolt. “Do they grow in a meadow?” “They don’t,” I answered. “They come in Missy’s handkerchief. As near as I can make out, they are sweet chunks of bran mash.” We stopped talking then, for Missy came, dressed for a canter. She didn’t see Thunderbolt’s master at first, for he was still stooping over. And after I had a bite of apple, she held out a piece to Thunderbolt. “You pretty fellow!” she said. At that, up popped Thunderbolt’s master. And they bowed, and said good-morning, and he pointed out Thunderbolt’s good points--deep chest and bold eye, and Missy followed with mine--tapering ears, broad forehead set with a star, and long, arched neck. So it was quite a bit before I was ready to go out. Thunderbolt’s master put Missy up and drove his trap beside us so that they could chat all the way to the Park. “_Did_ you notice?” asked Thunderbolt when we were both in again and John and Peter were grooming us. “Did I notice what?” I asked, licking my salt. “You haven’t good horse sense,” declared Thunderbolt. “A flea-bitten screw with cockled hocks would see more. _Didn’t_ you notice how nice my master was to your Missy?” I fairly pawed with delight. “Of course I noticed it,” I answered. And until the next apple-day I was careful to do my part. I nosed Thunderbolt’s master when he came in, I picked up my feet in my best style when I went out beside his trap, and I pranced. And when Missy wanted to turn me into the bridle-path, I passaged and champed. Thunderbolt’s master and Missy spent an hour in our boxes every day. They fed us dainties and talked to each other, and he was especially kind to me, patting me a lot and praising me. And I saw--well, I can see farther than my muzzle--and I was as happy as a Grand Prix winner. And then one day--something seemed wrong with Missy. She arrived earlier than usual, and had nothing for me. When she entered my stall, she threw her arms around my neck. “Oh, Hector! Hector!” she whispered, so sadly. And I saw she had a letter crumpled up in one hand. When Peter took off my sheet, she stepped back and looked me over. “You _dear_ darling!” she said, just as if she were going to cry. “Peter, _isn’t_ he beautiful? I’ve had him ever since he was a colt.” And she laid her pretty cheek against me. “Oi never seen a foiner, miss,” said Peter. “Up-headed, an’ wid a mouth that ud drive on a t’read.” Thunderbolt’s master came in then, and when he’d said good-morning he sent Peter away for something and stepped over into my box. Missy turned away from him, and he couldn’t help but see that she wasn’t acting as usual. But I don’t believe he understood it any better than I did. For he looked puzzled, and then he raised his hat again.