stick that fastened the door. "I think it was lonesome she was on the
thrain."

Fanny Fitz and Mr. Alexander peered into the dark and vasty interior of
the cow-house; from a remote corner they heard a heavy breath and the
jingle of a training bit, but they saw nothing.

"I have the cavesson and all on her ready for ye, and I was thinking
we'd take her south into Mr. Gunning's land. His finces is very good,"
continued Johnny, going cautiously in; "wait till I pull her out."

Johnny Connolly was a horse trainer who did a little farming, or a
farmer who did a little horse training, and his management of young
horses followed no known rules, and indeed knew none, but it was
generally successful. He fed them by rule of thumb; he herded them in
hustling, squabbling parties in pitch-dark sheds; he ploughed them at
eighteen months; he beat them with a stick like dogs when they
transgressed, and like dogs they loved him. He had what gardeners call
"a lucky hand" with them, and they throve with him, and he had,
moreover, that gift of winning their wayward hearts that comes neither
by cultivation nor by knowledge, but is innate and unconscious. Already,
after two days, he and the Connemara filly understood each other; she
sniffed distantly and with profound suspicion at Fanny and her
offerings, and entirely declined to permit Mr. Alexander to estimate her
height on the questionable assumption that the point of his chin
represented 15'2, but she allowed Johnny to tighten or slacken every
buckle in her new and unfamiliar costume without protest.

"I think she'll make a ripping good mare," said the enthusiastic Freddy,
as he and Fanny Fitz followed her out of the yard; "I don't care what