when they shy at anything, nearly as fast as they go ahead.
James let it drop that he didn't buy the filly for himself, but for some one else, but he wouldn't say who. You see, James was one of the sort that keep things to themselves. He'd make a mystery of little, unimportant things, and he often got me wild that way. I reckoned it was a sign of ignorance and a shallow, narrow mind.
Anyway, he wouldn't tell me whom he bought the filly for. He took her away once or twice, and perhaps he broke her in a bit early in the morning before any one was up and about. Well, one quiet Sunday morning he started down the creek, riding his own horse and leading the filly. He had a little black bundle, like a coat, strapped to the pommel of his saddle, and Mary's quick eye spotted it at once.
"Why, what's that you've got there on your saddle, James?" she said.
"Can't you mind your own business?" snarled James in a brotherly way. "Can't yer see it's me coat? You're always asking nonsensical questions."
"But you haven't got a black coat, James," said Mary, trying to get a close look. "When did you buy——"
But James swung off and rode away.
It puzzled Mary. Women do bother a lot about little things—and worry their husbands, too.
"That's funny," she said. "He could not have wanted one of my old skirts for anything! Why, I do believe he's had the infernal cheek to take my riding
