hat he might devise new and better methods
of pouring never entered his square-shaped head. It was left for a
fifteen-year-old girl, and an old darky, whom in his secret heart he
regarded as no better than the dirt beneath his feet, to start volcanic
eruptions destined to shake the very foundations of his
self-complacence. Hitherto he had simply been lord of his realm. He had
come to Columbia Heights highly recommended by the father of one of its
pupils and had assumed undisputed control. Mrs. Vincent, like hundreds
of other women who own horses, but who know about as much concerning
their care and well-being as they know of what is needful for a Rajah's
herd of elephants, judged wholly by the outward evidences. The horses
came to the house in seemingly faultless condition: their coats shone,
their harness seemed immaculate; they behaved in a most exemplary
manner. Nor had anything ever happened to the young ladies while they
were in Dawson's care. What more could a conscientious school Principal
ask of her riding master? It had never occurred to her to appear in the
stables when least expected; to examine harness, saddles, stalls, feed
mangers, bedding; to study the expressions of her horses' faces as she
would have studied her girls. How many women ever think of doing so? It
never entered her head to argue that there was more reason for it. Few
of her girls would have hesitated to express their minds had any one
misused them, or to insist upon comfortable conditions should
uncomfortable ones exist for them.

Yet Mrs. Vincent, sweet, strong, kind, and just to everyone, was as
blind as a babe to the impositions practiced by the oily-tongued,
deferential Dawson. True, he did 'get upon her nerves' now and again,
but she secretly reproached herself for what she felt to be her American
prejudices, and by way of self-discipline overlooked in Dawson many
little aggravating peculiarities which she would have felt it her duty
to instantly correct in the other servants.

And no doubt things would have gone on in exactly the same way
indefinitely had not a little lassie who loved horses and animals as she
loved human beings, and whose understanding of them and their
understanding of her was almost uncanny, chosen Columbia Heights School
for her Alma Mater.

That was a red letter hour for Dawson. He had a vague feeling that some
influence, perhaps his evil genius, was bestirring itself. At all
events, he was ill at ease, someth