taken by mistake in Farewell yesterday."

"That was my horse."

"Yores! But they said it was an _old_ lady's hoss! Are you shore it--"

"Of course I'm sure. Did you bring him back?... Where?... The corral?"

The girl walked swiftly to the window, took one glance at the bay
horse tied to the corral gate, and returned to the table.

"Certainly that's _my_ horse," she reiterated with the slightest of
smiles.

Racey Dawson stared at her in horror. Her horse! He had actually run
off with the horse of this beautiful being. He had thereby caused
inconvenience to this angel. If he could only crawl off somewhere and
pass away quietly. At the moment, by his own valuation, any one buying
him for a nickel would have been liberally overcharged. Her horse!
"I--I took yore hoss," he spoke up, desperately. "I'm Racey Dawson."

"So you're the man--" she began, and stopped.

He nodded miserably, his contrite eyes on the toes of her shoes. Small
shoes they were. Cheerfully would he have lain down right there on the
floor and let her wipe those selfsame shoes upon him. It would have
been a positive pleasure. He felt so worm-like he almost wriggled.
Slowly, oh, very slowly, he lifted his eyes to her face.

"I--I was drunk," he confessed, hoping that an honest confession would