ll the hitch-ropes at the farm
were rotten.

"Griz stands perfectly well without hitching," I said as we drove home,
"Why do you force an issue?"

"I didn't. She did. She's beaten me. If I don't hitch her now, she'll know
she's master."

"Oh, dear!" I sighed. "Let her _be_ master! Where's the harm? It's just
your vanity."

"Perhaps so," said Jonathan.

When he agrees with me like that I know it's hopeless.

The next night he wheeled in at the big gate bearing about his shoulders a
coil of heavy rope.

"It looks like a ship's cable," I said.

"Yes," he responded, leaning his bicycle against his side, and swinging
the coil over his head. "I want it for mooring purposes. Think it'll moor
Griz?"

"Jonathan!" I exclaimed, "you won't!"

"Watch me," said Jonathan, and he proceeded to explain to me the working
of the tackle.

One end had a ring in it, and as nearly as I remember, the plan was to put
the rope around her body, under what would be her arm-pits if she had
arm-pits,--horses' joints are never called what one would expect, of
course,--run the end through the ring, then forward between her legs and
through the bit-ring.

"Then, when she sets back, it cuts her in two," he concluded cheerfully.

"But you don't _want_ her in two," I protested.

"She won't set back," he responded; "at least, not more than once.
To-morrow's Sunday; I'll have to hitch her at church."

I hoped it would rain, so we needn't go, but we were having a drought and
the morning dawned cloudless. We reached the church just on the last
stroke of the bell. The women were all within; the men and boys lounging
in the vestibule were turning reluctant feet to follow them.

"You go right in," said Jonathan, "I'll be in soon."

I turned to protest, but he was already driving round to the side, and a
hush had fallen over the congregation within that made it embarrassing to
call. Besides, one of the deacons stood holding open the door for me.

I slipped into a pew near the back, with the apologetic feeling one often
has in an old country church--a feeling that one is making the ghosts move
along a little. They did move, of course,--probably ghosts are always
polite when one really meets them,--and I sat down. Indeed, I was thinking
very little of ghosts that day, or of the minister either. My ears were
cocked to catch and interpret all the noises that came in through the open
windows on my left. My eyes wandered in that direction, too, th