e'll go for the Stake. We're
up against it good and hard; somebody seems to know more about our own
horse than we do ourselves."

"I think myself that the gods are angry with us, Dixon," said Porter
moodily; "and the mortals will be furious, too, whichever way the race
goes. They've backed the little mare at this short price no doubt, an'
if she's beaten they'll howl; if she wins they'll swear my money was on
to-day, and that I pulled her in her last race."

John Porter sat in the Grand Stand with his usual companion, Allis,
beside him, as The Dutchman, Lucretia, and the other Eclipse horses
passed down the broad spread of the straight Eclipse course to the
five-and-a-half furlong post.

Though Porter had missed his betting, he intuitively felt the joy of an
anticipated win. Only a true lover of thoroughbreds can know anything of
the mad tumult of exultation that vibrates the heart strings as a
loved horse comes bravely, gallantly out from the surging throng of his
rivals, peerless and king of them all, stretching his tapered neck with
eager striving, and goes onward, past the tribunal, first and alone, the
leader, the winner, the one to be cheered of the many thousands wrought
to frenzy by his conquest.

"Surely Lucretia will win to-day, father--don't you think so?" asked
Allis; "I feel that she will."

"She's got a big weight up," he answered. "She's a little bit of a
thing, and it may drive her into the ground coming down the Eclipse
hill. I expect they'll come at a terrible jog, too; they don't often
hang back on that course."

Now that the betting worry and the labor of getting an honest boy were
over--that the horses had gone to the post, and that the race rested
with Lucretia herself, Porter's mind had relaxed. Even at the time
of the very struggle itself tension had gone from him; he was in a
meditative mood, and spoke on, weighing the chances, with Allis as
audience.

"But they'll have to move some to beat the little mare's trial--they'll
make it in record time if they head her, I think."

"Isn't the horse that beat her the other day in, too, father?"

"The Dutchman-yes, but I fancy his owner is backing my mare."

"Father!"

"It wouldn't make any difference, though; she'd beat him anyway. If I'm
any judge, he's short."

Allis felt a rustle at her elbow as though someone wished to pass
between the seats. The faintest whiff of stephanotis came to her on the
lazy summer air. Involuntarily she turne