nd, the latter
leaned over in his chair, touched him on the arm and said, "Come in and
take a seat."

"I can't," replied the other man, "my daughter is up there somewhere."

"I've played the mare," declared Danby, showing Porter a memo written in
a small betting book.

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
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 re