form. Her life, claimed by the open air, had its reward--the saddle is
no cradle for weaklings. Bred in an atmosphere of racing, and
surrounded as she had always been by thoroughbreds, Allis had grown up
full of admiration for their honesty, and courage, and sweet temper.




III


In John Porter's home horse racing had no debasing effect. If a man
couldn't race squarely--run to win every time--he had better quit the
game, Porter had always asserted. He raced honestly and bet openly,
without cant and without hypocrisy; just as a financier might have
traded in stocks in Wall Street; or a farmer might plant his crops and
trust to the future and fair weather to yield him a harvest in return.

So much of the racing life was on honor--so much of the working out of
it was in the open, where purple-clovered fields gave rest, and health,
and strength, that the home atmosphere was impregnated with moral truth,
and courage, and frankness, in its influence on the girl's development.

Every twist of her sinewy figure bore mute testimony to this; every
glance from her wondrous eyes was an eloquent substantiating argument in
favor of the life she affected. John Porter looked down at the small,
rather dark, upturned face, and a half-amused smile of content came to
his lips. "Did you see Lucretia?" he asked. "Isn't she a beauty?
Hasn't Dixon got her in the pink of condition?"