she dismounted and the great horse stamped into his stall.
"O Pilgrim," she sobbed, "Jason is going to war. Jason is going to war. I can't lose him too!"
The horse turned his fine head and nick ered softly as he rubbed his soft nose on her shoulder.
"And I've got to let you go, old friend," she added. " I know that I don't need you, Pilgrim. It's just that you are like a living bit of father — and if Jason would only seem to understand that, it wouldn't be so hard to let you go. I wonder if all young folks are like Jason?"
Old Pilgrim leaned his head over his stall and in the November gloaming he looked long at his mistress with his wise and gentle eyes. It was as if he would tell her that he had learned that youth is always a little hard; that only long years in harness with always the back-breaking load to pull, not for one-
