“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I tried to yesterday, but somehow I couldn’t get it out.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I will do,” said good-natured Sammy.  “You come round to-night after I get my chores done up, and we’ll go together and have it over with.”

“All right; I’ll come,” said Roy.

They found Miss Ruth alone, for it was Thursday night and the minister’s family were at the prayer-meeting.  The September evening was chilly, and she was sitting before an open fire.

“You do the talking,” Roy whispered at the door, and accordingly Sammy, after fidgeting in his seat a little, opened the subject.

“Roy wants me to ask you,” he began, and then stopped at a punch in the side from Roy’s knuckles, and began again:  “Me and Roy would like—­if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, and you’d just as soon as not—­to have you tell us a horse story next time.”  Then in a loud whisper aside to Roy:  “You did ask me!  You know you did.”

“Well, you needn’t put it all on me, if I did,” Roy answered, in the same tone.

Miss Ruth appeared not to notice this by-play.

“A horse story,” she said pleasantly; “yes, why not?”

“You see,” Sammy continued, “we like to hear about cats well enough, and that ant battle was first-rate—­I’d like to have seen it, I know; but Roy, he says the girls might be writin’ notes askin’ you to tell more cat stories and—­and—­well”—­

“Yes, I see,” she said; “too much of a good thing.  Well, I will tell no more cat stories, and it shall be all horse next Wednesday.  Will that suit you, Sammy?  And Roy, do you like horses very much?”

“Yes, ’m,” said Roy, bashfully.

“He says,” said Sammy, rather enjoying the office of spokesman, “when he grows up he means to have a fast trotter.  I’d like to own a good horse myself,” continued Sam.

“I know a boy about your age,” said Miss Ruth, “whose father gave him, for a birthday present, a Canadian pony; a funny looking little beast, not much larger than a big dog, but strong enough to carry double Herbert’s weight.”

“Like the Shetland ponies at the show?”

“Yes; but larger, and not so costly.  He is a thick-set, shaggy fellow, always looking as if he were not half-groomed, with his coat all rough and tumbled, his legs covered with thick hair, his mane hanging on both sides of his neck, and his forelock always getting into his bright little eyes.”

“What color?” said Roy.

“Dark brown; not handsome, but so affectionate and intelligent that you would love him dearly.  He is as frolicsome as a kitten, and I laughed and laughed again to see him racing round the yard, hardly able to see for the shag of hair tumbling over his eyes, playing queer tricks and making uncouth gambols, more like a big puppy than a small horse.  To be sure he has a will of his own, and has more than once—­just for fun—­thrown his young master over his head; but he always stands stock still till the boy is on his back again, and as Herbert says:  ’It is only a little way to fall from his back to the ground.’”