her shirt-sleeves rolled up to her elbows, scrubbed in the soap. A
clipped fuchsia hedge, the pride of William O'Loughlin's heart, screened
the little lawn and garden from the high road.

"Good morning, Miss Fanny," said a voice over the hedge.

Fanny Fitz raised a flushed face and wiped a fleck of Naldyre off her
nose with her arm.

"I've just been looking at your mare," went on the voice.

"Well, I hope you liked her!" said Fanny Fitz defiantly, for the voice
was the voice of Rupert Gunning, and there was that in it that in this
connection acted on Miss Fitzroy as a slogan.

"Well, 'like' is a strong word, you know!" said Mr. Gunning, moving on
and standing with his arms on the top of the white gate and meeting
Fanny's glance with provoking eyes. Then, as an after-thought, "Do you
think you give her enough to eat?"

"She gets a feed of oats every Sunday, and strong tea and thistles
through the week," replied Fanny Fitz in furious sarcasm.

"Yes, that's what she looks like," said Rupert Gunning thoughtfully.
"Connolly tells me you want to send her to the show--Barnum's, I
suppose--as the skeleton dude?"

"I believe you want to buy her yourself," retorted Fanny, with a vicious
dab of the soap in the daughter's eye.