"If you began," answered the major, "to write the history of the horse, you must write also the history of every body who was concerned in those circumstances which caused Sam to take a certain famous ride upon him. And you would find that the history of the horse would be reduced into very small compass, and that the rest of your book would assume proportions too vast for the human intellect to grasp." "How so?" I said. He entered into certain details, which I will not give. "You would have," he said, "to begin at the end of the last century, and bring one gradually on to the present time. Good heavens! just consider." "I think you exaggerate," I said. "Not at all," he answered. "You must begin the histories of the Buckley and Thornton families in the last generation. The Brentwoods also, must not be omitted,--why there's work for several years. What do you say, Brentwood?" "The work of a life-time;" said the captain. "But suppose I were to write a simple narrative of the principal events in the histories of the three families, which no one is more able to do than myself, seeing that nothing important has ever happened without my hearing of it,--how, I say, would you like that?" "If it amused you to write it, I am sure it would amuse us to read it," said the major. "But you are rather old to turn author," said Captain Brentwood; "you'll make a failure of it; in fact, you'll never get through with it." I replied not, but went into my bedroom, and returning with a thick roll of papers threw it on the floor--as on the stage the honest notary throws down the long-lost will,--and there I stood for a moment with my arms folded, eyeing Brentwood triumphantly. "It is already done, captain," I said. "There it lies." The captain lit a cigar, and said nothing; but the major said, "Good gracious me! and when was this done?" "Partly here, and partly in England. I propose to read it aloud to you, if it will not bore you." "A really excellent idea," said the major. "My dear!"--this last was addressed to a figure which was now seen approaching us up a long vista of trellised vines. A tall figure dressed in grey. The figure, one could see as she came nearer, of a most beautiful old woman. Dressed I said in grey, with a white handkerchief pinned over her grey hair, and a light Indian shawl hanging from her shoulders. As upright as a dart: she came towards us through the burning heat, as calmly and majestically as if the temperature had been delightfully moderate. A hoary old magpie accompanied her, evidently of great age, and from time to time barked like an old bulldog, in a wheezy whisper. "My dear," said the major; "Hamlyn is going to read aloud some manuscript to us." "That will be very delightful, this hot weather," said Mrs. Buckley. "May I ask the subject, old friend?" "I would rather you did not, my dear madam; you will soon discover, in spite of a change of names, and perhaps somewhat of localities."