As she sat listening—as she was compelled to do—to some of the loud-spoken utterances of the group, she surveyed with interest the crowd below her, which was now growing larger and larger. She chanced to observe a man and a boy walking slowly along the track over in front of the stables. Adjusting her field glasses she saw that it was her trainer and jockey. They appeared to be examining the track carefully, while the trainer pointed to a spot along the outside rail. They then disappeared. As they were leaving the track she could see the trainer shaking his head slowly, with his eyes bent upon the ground. The pang of disappointment now rankled within her. She knew that Cassandra’s start had been discussed and that it was abandoned. She had never realized till now how thoroughly expectant she had been. Her thoughts took on the coloring of her insatiate longing with which she battled. Her mind passed in review all the struggles, all the regrets, all the vague fancies it had conjured when coupled with the bare name Cassandra. “Yet,” thought she, “my husband named her. She was his favorite. Why shouldn’t she be mine? I could not help my attachment. Besides, I’m sure it must have grown strong—as it has—on his account. How I had wished to see her start, wished to hear her beauty praised by others!” The band in the amphitheatre now struck up a lively air and the horses entered for the first race passed for review before the judges preparatory to going to the post. A stranger, who came pressing his way along the balcony until he had joined the group with Major Campbell, seated himself and looked intently at a programme he carried in his hand. “Major,” he asked, “what entry is this in the handicap that I hear them call ‘the ghost’?” “Oh,” replied the Major, “that is the little mare ‘Cassandra.’” At the mention of the name the mistress inclined her ear instantly. “That’s singular,” continued the stranger. “What’s the significance, Major—or do you know?” “Why, that’s the name the boys here at the track gave to her and by which she is now generally known. You see,” he continued, “her owner, who was greatly attached to her as a mere weanling, is now dead. Have you never seen her, sir?” The stranger shook his head. “Well, she’s a little marvel of beauty, sir, a perfect dream; milk-white from tip to tip and as trim and shapely as a gazelle.” “Does she start this evening?” inquired the stranger. “Townsend told me but a while ago that he had just heard she would not start.” “I’m sorry,” replied the stranger, “but after your description of her, Major, I think I shall make a special trip to the stable to see her.” “You knew her owner, did you not?” asked the major. “I can’t recall him,” said the stranger, thoughtfully. “Why, he’s been with us often—a jolly good fellow he was, too, full of life and—” “Was he married?” interrupted the stranger.