The latter started and a frown crossed his brown face.

"I'm sorry--I'm afraid it's no cinch."

"Five to two never is," laughed his friend. "But she's a right smart
filly; she looks much the best of the lot. Dixon's got her as fit as a
fiddle string. When you're done with that man you might turn him over
to me, John."

"The mare's good enough," said Porter, "and I've played her myself--a
stiffish bit, too; but all the same, if you asked me now, I'd tell you
to keep your money in your pocket. I must go," he added, his eye
catching the flutter of a race card which was waving to him three seats
up.

"Here's a seat, Dad," cried the girl, cheeringly, lifting her coat from
a chair she had kept for her father.

For an instant John Porter forgot all about Lucretia and her troubles.
The winsome little woman had the faculty of always making him forget his
trials; she had to the fullest extent that power so often found in plain
faces. Strictly speaking, she wasn't beautiful--any man would have
passed that opinion if suddenly asked the question upon first seeing
her. Doubt of the excellence of this judgment might have crept into his
mind after he had felt the converting influence of the blue-gray eyes
that were so much like her father's; in them was the most beautiful
thing in the world, an undoubted evidence of truth and honesty and
sympathy. She was small and slender, but no one had ever likened her to
a flower. There was apparent sinewy strength and vigor in the small