But Missy's
feet seemed to have forgotten the familiar route to the Public
Library and, instead, ever turned eagerly toward the O'Neills'--that
is, toward the O'Neills' barn.
And, if she had admired Tess before, she worshipped her now for so
generously permitting another to share the wonderful pony--it was
like being a half owner. And the odd thing was that, though Gypsy
had undeniable streaks of wildness, Missy never felt a tremor while
on her. On Gypsy she cantered, she trotted, she galloped, just as
naturally and enjoyably as though she had been born on horseback.
Then one epochal day, emulating Tess's example, she essayed to ride
astride. It was wonderful. She could imagine herself a Centaur
princess. And, curiously, she felt not at all embarrassed. Yet she
was glad that, back there in the lot, she was screened by the big
barn from probably critical eyes.
But Gypsy made an unexpected dart into the barn-door, through the
barn, and out into the yard, before Missy realized the capricious
creature's intent. And, as luck would have it, the Reverend MacGill
was sitting on the porch, calling on Grandma Shears.
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