“The beauty of the question air,” said her sire, looking proudly after her, “that gyrl kin ride like a Injun.” “She seems to do everything well,” said Roden, with a pleased recollection of those mutton-chops which Aunt Tishy had confided to him “Miss Faginia done herself.” “She cert’n’y does,” said Herrick, and after making some unique excuse disappeared also. Miss Herrick appeared a few moments later, again clad in her boyish attire, and mounted upon a fidgety little roan mare. She had slung a wicker basket from the saddle, and Roden heard a merry clink as of glass kissing silver when the mare sidled about. “That’s a clever-looking little nag,” said Roden. “Is she yours?” “Nuck,” said Virginia. “I reckon she’s yours; she goes with the place.” “I didn’t see her this morning,” Roden said, somewhat puzzled. “No; she’d gone to the shop to get a new shoe; that’s why. I reckon you’ll name her over.” “Why?” said Roden. It seemed to him he had never put that monosyllabic question so often before in the entire course of his life. “’Cause it ain’t very pretty,” Virginia explained. “Father named her--it’s Pokeberry.” “Oh, I don’t know,” said Roden, laughing. “I rather fancy it. It’s uncommon, to say the least. I don’t think I’ll change it.” “Well, there’s two others I _know_ you’ll change,” she asserted. “They’re two carriage-horses, an’ they’re named Peckerwood an’ Hoppergrass.” “Capital!” said Roden, laughing again. “Change them?--not much! Shall we start now?” It was a perfect day--perfect as only a day in Southern winter-tide can be. The air was radiant, wine-like, while with a still further suggestiveness little glittering insects spun around and around in the sunlight like the particles of gold-leaf in eau-de-vie de Dantzic. The roads, dried in some sort by the steady wind of the past night and morning, were mellowed to a dull orange in lieu of their former startling crimson. Infinite tones of faded browns and grays wrapped wold and hill-side. The sky, of an intense metallic pallor, was covered with gauze-like masses of wind-torn cirri. As they went on, a sycamore thrust its bone-white arms before a dark hollow in the mountain-side, reminding one of a skeleton guarding the mouth of a cavern, where during its life it had concealed some treasure. The harsh call of crows, beginning in the far east, passed in _crescendo_ above their heads, and died away as the heavy birds flew westward.