"Whose horse is this, Robin?" enquired Colonel Ashland.

The old fellow touched his hat.

"Dis is Mr. Johnstone hoss, suh." He spoke with pride.

"Not a very distinguished name," laughed one of the others, Mr. Newby,
a youngish man dressed in the latest race-course style. He wore bits
and stirrups as pins and fobs, owned a few horses, and "talked horse"
continually.

Old Robin sniffed disdainfully.

"Oh, it may be," said the young girl, turning her eyes on him with a
little flash. She saw that the old darkey had caught the words.

"What Mr. Johnston is it, uncle?" she asked, kindly, with a step
forward.

"Mr. Theod'ric Johnston, madam." He spoke with pride.

"What! _Colonel_ Theodoric Johnston? Is he living still?" asked Colonel
Ashland. "I thought he--How is he?"

"Oh, nor, suh! He 's dead. He died about three years ago. Dis gent'man
is the gran'son--one o' my young masters. I was the fust pusson ever put
him on a hoss."

"Can he ride?"

"Kin he ride! You wait an' see him," laughed the old man. "He ought to
be able to ride! Ken a bud fly? Heah he now."

He turned as the young owner, brown and tanned, and hardly more than a
boy, came up through the crowd. He, like his horse, had been carefully
groomed, and through his sun tan he bore a look of distinction. He was
dressed for the race, but wore a coat over his faded silk jacket. As
he turned and found Robin talking to a lady, his cap came off
instinctively. The men looked at him scrutinizingly.

"Are you Colonel Theodoric Johnston's grandson?" enquired Colonel
Snowden. "He used to have some fine horses."

"Yes, sir." His eye stole to the horse that was just beside him, and the
color mounted to his cheek.

"And he was a fine man. The turf lost one of its best ornaments when he
retired." Colonel Ashland was the speaker.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." His cap was in his hand, his words and
manner were respectful, but when he spoke he looked the other in the
eyes, and his eyes, though shy, were clear and calm.

"We were just admiring your horse," said the young lady, graciously.

He turned and looked at her with the color flashing up in his tanned
cheeks.

"Thank you. I am glad if he meets with your approval." He ended his
formal little speech with a quaint, slow bow. "I wish he were worthier
of it."

"Oh, I am sure he is," she said, politely. "At least, you have our good
wishes." Her eye fell on one of her companions. "Has n't he, Mr. Newby?"

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