"Angels don't ride," replied Hilda. "You'll have none of your horses in heaven."
"Then I'm not on to go there, if I do get the chance. Excuse me, Mrs. Courtenay, I mean nothing naughty. But there will be ponies in heaven, and dogs too," continued Larry; "I've seen them going that way."
"What do you mean?" inquired the ladies, laughing.
"I've seen them lie down and die for me, and I've watched their last look of love, saying as distinctly as they ever spoke in life, 'We'll meet again, master.' And I believe we shall."
"I did not know," said Tom, "that we were in the fabled fields where the creatures conversed like Christians."
"No man yet ever got work and devotion from beast or man that did not talk to it, and it to him. Why, my chestnut turns round and speaks to me—I'm not so barbarous as to drive with winkers—every mile we go. Every horse has a soul, if you only try to find it.
"Well, doctor, how are those poor creatures of yours getting on?" Harry asked of his host as he joined the party. "You'll do more than I ever could with that sort if you get anything reasonable out of them."
"We will ride round after lunch, and you can judge for yourself."
"Excuse me," remarked O'Lochlan, at the conclusion of the well-appointed repast, "but you have less trouble than I experience with servants. You seem to have a most superior set."
"All 'my children,' as I call them," said Mrs. Courtenay. "I receive the daughters of our people for two or three months, teach them what I can, and then secure engagements for them amongst my friends in town."
"You must have trouble in breaking in the young fillies—I beg your pardon—the maids, I mean."
