Simon lay on the grass, thinking. He flicked a fly that was tickling. Although he was a most worthy horse, he was often troubled with very grand notions about himself and very poor thoughts concerning his neighbours.

Day had not yet begun at Tower Tighe Farm. The stars had faded away, and the great warm sun was waking up the nestlings, waking them up to cry for food, and disturb folk generally, for everything was very quiet and still at Tower Tighe.

The owner, John Fairfax, was a spare man, very thin, with a grey straggly beard, and bright blue eyes. He possessed fierce-looking brows, and a very long nose. His wife was a fat little lady, who bustled about a great deal, and went round the farm saying kind things to everybody, and to Tony the fox-terrier in particular, for Tony was a thorough little scamp. He told old Simon one day, that missis was a deary, and behaved fine when she wasn’t walking. Then she was just like a lop-sided hour glass, so fat all round—save at the waist, which was thin, and she wobbled like a tee-totum.

“If everything and everybody would only wake up,” moaned Simon, chafing at the stillness about him.

“Wake up. Arn’t I here,” called Spangles, the Rooster, as he proclaimed to the world “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” snapped Simon.

“Top of the morning to you, sir,” said Spangles. “Don’t get crabby with your neighbours. Hi! there,” he called out, as he saw Tony racing after a rabbit.

“Never mind that nimble scratcher,” neighed Simon. “Come here and I will tell you something. I am going to the Mill—are you ready to join me?”

As Simon mentioned “Mill,” Tony stopped.

“Rats live there,” he said to himself, “rats.”

“We can talk,” said Simon, seriously.

“Indeed,” said the sagacious dog.

And when they were on the high road bound for the Mill, Simon began:

“Tony, I’ve been considering.”

“Indeed!”

“You’re a decent little fellow.”

Tony blinked.

“I’ve been bothering about this a long time.”

“Never thought you bothered about anything. You’re such a quiet old chap, Si. But hurry up! Do! There’s a shrew waltzing along the road, and I’m getting impatient. Do be quick; I can’t go marching by your side in this procession-like fashion for ever and a day, now can I?”

“Well,” began Simon, which told of an ache at his heart, “Master Harry’s coming home. He’s been away for years and years. He was one of the liveliest lads you’d meet in a day’s march. But he had one big fault. When he wasn’t romping he was learning lessons. And how those lessons did spoil him, they took all the fun out of him. Master says they put sense into his head, but what does anyone want with sense, answer me that? and you know it isn’t proper for a lively lad to be thoughtful. Well, as I was saying, he was a fine sturdy chap was Master Harry—that’s years before you were born, nipper.”

“Humph!” said Tony.

“Well, now he is coming home, at least he has written a letter to say so. He says that he has grown rich, and has been to foreign places, and is bringing a horse and a dog—you hear that Tony, a horse and a dog.”

Simon said this so seriously that Tony looked up.

“I’m the only horse here, and you are the only dog here, and Tower Tighe is but a small farm.”

“A regular scrap of a place.”

“Well, it appears to me that our whole life will be changed.”

“It will be jollier for both of us, if you mean that,” said Tony. “There will be a friend for you and a companion for me, for if you just ask yourself, Simon, we ain’t—er—quite companions, now are we?”

“You’re such a featherhead, how could you expect to be a what-d’ye-say to me. You never could think of things in the right way.”

“Bah! you’re always repining, and I think life’s far too scrappy to waste it in grumbling. When you take growing-up time off—teething, distemper, and lots of things come to you whether you want ’em or you don’t; then there’s meal times, sleeping, and sometimes you have to take physic—O! my, life’s very short, when you take off all these things. Just see what a glorious morning it is! Whoop, there! I see a rat?”

And off trotted Tony in full pursuit of a rodent which had made for his hole, leaving the little dog to fume and fret and bark himself hoarse all to no purpose.

“That’s Tony to a nicety. There never was such a scamp in this world. But he’s a good-tempered little creature for all that. He’s so nice and frisky. I try, but I suppose I’m growing old. Now, if I was to try to be unselfish and funny, I wonder how I’d feel—Bah! but I will!”

Now as the cart was laden Farmer John sprang up, and the horse that started pulling him was Simon certainly, but what a changed creature was he. He fairly charged the hills instead of crawling up them, and then he took the high road as if he had springs in his hoofs, and his dinner was awaiting him at home.

“Why, Giles,” said the farmer on nearing home, “what’s all this fuss about? Why is the garden gate open, and why is all this fuss going on here?”

“Why, young Mr. Harry’s come home! Oh! master, master, an’ he’s growed a man, and he’s that big an’ strong an’ grand, he’d make two of me, master!”

“What!” said the farmer, springing from his seat. “Well, I’m blest—Hal? Why, old Simon, you must have smelt him—for I’ve never seen you skip up the road like that. Oh! Hal! Hal! my lad—why, you are a man indeed! My bonny lad—” as a stalwart fellow came forward to greet him.

“Father!” cried his son, and the two men clasped hands.

Presently the old man spoke.

“Why, it’s thee, it’s thee, Harry!” and tears crept into the farmer’s voice.

You see it was ten years since Harry Fairfax had left home, a stripling, and now he had returned a sunburnt hearty man with a strong mellow voice, and eyes that were bright and merry and kind.

“Hasn’t he grown big, father?” said Mrs. Fairfax, mopping her eyes with a big roller towel she was busy folding when her son arrived. Then she flicked a stray bit of down which had blown upon his coat sleeve, flicked it away, and stroked the arm with a proud feeling of possession. “Do come into the house, Harry dear, and get a rest while I see to a bit of dinner. Father, I do believe this is the happiest day of my life.”

“Just wait till I bait Blackie, mother,” said her son, “I’ll be with you in a minute, but I want to attend to my beauty first. Ah! she’s a grand little lady, mother!”

“Just the same as you always were, Hal, somebody first and yourself afterwards. What a famous little mount she is though! Wherever did you pick her up?”

“In Texas.”

“Well, she is a dear little mare.”

“She is a thorough little Arab. I broke her in myself, and it’s one of my best investments, father.”

Here Blackie thought fit to express her thanks to her master for his kind remarks about her, and Farmer Fairfax stepped aside to allow her to show off her capers.

“There’s a second stall in the stable, Harry,” said his father. “Bring her along; my boy; Simon will be very pleased to have a bright little friend like Blackie.”

As indeed he was.

At first he was shy, fearfully shy, for he was not used to being stared at, and Blackie had such beautiful eyes which opened in wonder at the ungainly specimen before her.

“Good-day, sir,” she began, “I suppose I am to share this place with you!”

“Well, ye—s,” stammered Simon.

“Pleasant country this.”

“Very.”

“Been here a long time?”

“Always.”

“What a rusty old creature he is,” Blackie was thinking. “I believe he’s blushing.”

“Where did she come from?” thought Simon. Presently he stammered:

“Do you like o—a—t—s?”

But before the answer was given Tony and Pat came tumbling in, breathless with running.

“I hope you feel at home now, Pat?” said the little terrier.

“Stunnin’.”

“And you like your quarters? I say, Pat, you’re the best fellow I ever saw in my life. Such a racer—such a catcher—” and for answer, Pat, who was tired out, had laid down to rest, snored “stunnin’.”