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his eyes were dark and scarey, and the long lashes that shadowed them were gold-tipped in the sunset light. He blinked, standing insecurely on wide-planted legs; and Simon’s heart went out to him.
    ‘I say, he
is
a beauty!’ said Amias. ‘What are you going to call him?’
    ‘I don’t know yet. What do you think?’
    ‘If you gave him a very
red
sort of name—’ began a small voice behind them, and looking round they saw Mouse hovering on the outskirts of the group.
    Nobody had heard her come, but it was always like that with Mouse, hence her name, though she had been christened Marjory. It was infuriating, this silence of hers, and made it almost impossible to keep anything secret from her; but both boys were bound to admit that whatever she found out about them and their affairs she never told to anyone else.
    ‘Hullo! Where did you spring from?’ demanded Simon, rather ungraciously.
    Mouse advanced into their midst, and stood looking at the foal. ‘From the house,’ she said. ‘I heard you go through and I thought it must be Rizpah’s baby, so I came to see. His tail’s just like a feather.’
    ‘What did you say about calling him a red sort of name?’ demanded Amias, who hated people to wander from the point and leave their sentences unfinished.
    ‘If you gave him a very red sort of name, perhaps it might help him to grow red. Simon was saying he
wanted
him to grow red.’
    ‘That’s a good idea,’ nodded Simon. ‘You’ve hit on a sensible notion for once, Mouse. Amias, what’s the reddest name you can think of?’
    ‘Scarlet,’ said Amias promptly, while Mouse, pleased at the unwonted praise, smiled at both boys until a large dimple which she very seldom showed appeared in her left cheek.
    ‘All right,’ said Simon. ‘We’ll call him Scarlet. I say, Diggory, when can we begin breaking him?’
    But it was another voice that answered, and turning quicklythey saw Mr Carey in the stable doorway, with a couple of field spaniels at his heels. ‘Not until he’s rising three years old,’ said Simon’s father. ‘A horse broken younger than that is too often a horse spoiled.’
    They faced him respectfully, hands behind their backs. ‘He’s simply splendid,’ said Simon, ‘and, Father, we’re going to call him Scarlet.’
    ‘That seems quite a reasonable name.’ Simon’s father studied the little group with cold light-grey eyes that always made Amias remember his latest evil-doings. ‘Does it seem to you that Rizpah may be feeling a little crowded, with quite so many admirers in her stall? Suppose you three come outside. Oh, and, Marjory, your mother wants you in the still-room.’
    They trooped after him; and Mouse scurried away to her mother, while old Diggory remained behind to make much of Rizpah, who was his darling.
    Outside in the courtyard, Simon said in an eager rush, ‘Thanks for giving him to me, Father. He’s—he’s
splendid
!’
    ‘I am glad he comes up to your expectations. You realize you will have to help break him when he’s old enough,’ said Mr Carey, closing the half-door of the stable. ‘Amias, your pony is ready for you, as you see, and it is time that you were on your way home. Your father will want to see a little of you, I imagine, on this last evening before you go to school.’
    ‘Yes, sir, I’ll go now,’ said Amias, who was much more in awe of Simon’s father than he was of his own; and crossed to where his fat pony stood with its bridle looped over the hitching-post. He mounted into the saddle and wheeled the fat little creature towards the gateway. ‘Good night, sir. ’Night Simon. See you tomorrow.’
    ‘Wait for me by the market,’ Simon called.
    Pony and rider disappeared under the arch of the gatehouse, and Simon heard the hoofbeats tittupping up the rutted wagon-way. The sky above the roofs of Lovacott was deepening to lavender, and the wings of the wheeling doves were no longer gilded, as they had been a while back, but grey. Soon the