She was thinking of her husband. Thinking of a day on the race-course; the day upon which she had first met him. Of how she had then dreamed of his wonderful personality, and afterwards learned how easily and completely it had swayed her own. Of how untiring, faultlessly devotional had been his constant care for her, and of how precisely perfect and pleasureable had been their married life. She grew desperate now, and upbraided herself distressingly to think that already he should have become to her “nothing more vital than a memory.” Yes, after all, she would go. She would go to the scene where she had first met him, to San Francisco; her husband’s stable of horses was now there. As she entered leisurely the door of her home, and was met by her maid in the hall, who relieved her of her wraps, she made known her intention of leaving on the morrow, and gave instructions to her to have everything in readiness for their departure. She then went from the rear porch of the house in the direction of the coachman’s quarters, to notify Thomas to make preparations desired. This, she had persuaded herself, was her real reason for going to the locality set apart for the horses; but, was it? No sooner had Thomas been found than the very first question asked him was pertaining to the welfare of his charge. A few moments later, it was she who was gently caressing the milk-white, deer-head of the mare, with her soft hands, now stroking the shiny neck, now encircling it within her arms, while the warm breath from the pink nostrils fanned at intervals her fair brow, sending a-whirl some truant lock of her wavy hair. “Thomas,” she now said, turning a face full of inquiry upon the coachman, who had stood with a look of amazement, gazing upon the manifest interest and affection of the young mistress, “what is her name?” “Well, ma’am,” he replied, assuming the air now of one who feels the importance of being the proud possessor of some rare bit of information, “ever since she played in the paddock, three years ago now, by her mother’s side, and the master would come and take her little head in his hands, just as you have, ma’am, and pinch her cheeks, and laugh at her odd pranks, he called her Cassandra.” “Cassandra!” she repeated. “Then he must have loved her?” “Oh, indeed he did, ma’am, she was his favorite, and the trainer knew it, too.” “Thomas, we start for San Francisco in the morning. You are to go, and have in your especial care, Cassandra. When you have arrived there deliver her again into the hands of the trainer, with instructions that the best of attention be shown her.” “Thanky, ma’am,” said Thomas. “I’m proud of my charge, ma’am, indeed I am, for she’s a plum picture.” IV