Miss Prue had said that she wanted a safe, steady horse; one that would
not run, balk, or kick. She would not have bought any horse, indeed, had
it not been that the way to the post office, the store, the church, and
everywhere else, had grown so unaccountably long--Miss Prue was
approaching her sixtieth birthday. The horse had been hers now a month,
and thus far it had been everything that a dignified, somewhat timid
spinster could wish it to be. Fortunately--or unfortunately, as one may
choose to look at it--Miss Prue did not know that in the dim recesses of
Jupiter's memory there lurked the smell of the turf, the feel of the
jockey's coaxing touch, and the sound of a triumphant multitude shouting
his name; in Miss Prue's estimation the next deadly sin to treason and
murder was horse racing.

There was no one in the town, perhaps, who did not know of Miss Prue's
abhorrence of horse racing. On all occasions she freed her mind
concerning it; and there was a report that the only lover of her youth
had lost his suit through his passion for driving fast horses. Even the
county fair Miss Prue had refused all her life to attend--there was the
horse racing. It was because of all this that she had been so loath to
buy a horse, if only the way to everywhere had not grown so long!

For four weeks--indeed, for five--the new horse, Ann, was a treasure;
then, one day, Jupiter remembered.

Miss Prue was driving home from the post office. The wide, smooth road
led straight ahead under an arch of flaming gold and scarlet. The
October air was crisp and bracing, and unconsciously Miss Prue lifted
her chin and drew a long breath. Almost at once, however, she frowned.
From behind her had come the sound of a horse's hoofs, and reluctantly
Miss Prue pulled the right-hand rein.