In two minutes it had left the range, and was coming across the fields towards him, jumping the fences, dodging under the trees, and racing across the plain with its white mane and tail tossing as it came.  It seemed to be making straight for him.

He was not really frightened—­you must not think that about him—­but he was just beginning to wonder if it were not nearly time to go home to dinner, when he noticed that the white horse had stopped, just at the foot of the bald hill.  It was looking up at him, tossing its head and pawing the ground—­the most beautiful white horse that he had ever seen, even in a circus.  Then it appeared to get over its excitement and began to trot quietly up the hill toward him.

I do not think anyone would have blamed Neville if he had decided then to go home to dinner at once.  But he was rather a brave boy, and he was certainly very curious, so he just stood still and waited.

And here is where the most wonderful part of the story begins.  The white horse trotted up to Neville and spoke to him.  That would surprise most people; and Neville was certainly as much surprised as anyone else would have been.

“What are you frightened of?” asked the white horse in a loud voice.

Now, Neville was just a little frightened by this time; but he was not going to show it, so he just said, “Who’s frightened?”

“You’re frightened,” said the white horse, louder than ever.  “You’re only a timid little boy.  I thought when I saw you in the distance that you were one of the plucky ones; but I was mistaken.  You’re just a little cowardly-custard.”

“You’d better be careful who you’re talking to,” said Neville, suddenly losing his fear. (Little boys do not always talk good grammar; otherwise he would have said “whom” not “who.”) He hated to be called a “cowardly-custard.”  “You’d better be careful, or I’ll give you a bang!”

“Ah ha!” cried the white horse.  “Very brave all at once, aren’t you?  All the same, you’re afraid to come near and stroke me.”

“But I don’t want to stroke you,” said Neville.

“I thought not,” replied the white horse.  “I thought not, the moment I got close to you.  You’re one of the frightened ones, and I’ve been wasting my time.”

“Who’s frightened?” said Neville again.

“You asked that before,” replied the white horse, “and I told you.  If you’re not frightened, come along and stroke me.  There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

So Neville walked right up to the white horse and stroked his shoulder.  And at once he felt that he had been foolish to hold back.  For of all the smooth, soft, silky coats he had ever stroked, that of the white horse was certainly the smoothest, and the softest, and the silkiest.  He felt that he could go on stroking it for hours.

“There now,” said the white horse in a voice as soft and silky as his coat.  “There was nothing to be afraid of, was there?  And I think that perhaps I was mistaken about you.  I rather think you might be one of those daring boys that one reads about in stories.  What about jumping on my back for a little ride?”