turn.

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?"

"I saw nothing else, father." She beckoned to him with her eyes, tipped
her head forward, and whispered: "Those people behind us have backed
Lauzanne. I think they're racing folks."

The father smiled as an uncultured woman's voice from one row back
jarred on his ear. Allis noticed the smile and its provocation, and
said, speaking hastily, "I don't mean like you, father--"

"Like us," he corrected.

"Well, perhaps; they're more like betting or training people, though."
She put her hand on his arm warningly, as a high-pitched falsetto
penetrated the drone of their half-whispered words, saying, "I tell you
Dick knows all about this Porter mare, Lucretia."

"But I like her," a baritone voice answered. "She looks a rattlin'
filly."

"You'll dine off zwieback and by your lonely, Ned, if you play horses on
their looks--"

"Or women either," the baritone cut in.

"You're a fair judge, Ned. But Dick told me to go the limit on Lauzanne,
and to leave the filly alone."

"On form Lucretia ought to win," the man persisted; "an' there's never
anythin' doin' with Porter."

"Perhaps not;" the unpleasant feminine voice sneered mockingly, with
an ill-conditioned drawl on the "perhaps"; "but he doesn't ride his own
mare, does he?"

John Porter started. Again that distasteful expression fraught with
distrust and insinuation. There was a strong evil odor of stephanotis
wafted to his nostrils as the speaker shook her fan with impatient
decision. The perfume affected him disagreeably; it was like the
exhalation of some noisome drug; quite in keeping with the covert
insinuation of her words that Dick, as she called him--it must be Dick
Langdon, the trainer of Lauzanne, Porter mused--had given her advice
based on a knowledge quite irrespective of th