Chapter I: “where Is Old Nick?”

“Good-by!” “Good-by!” “Hope you’ll have a good time!” “Merry Christmas beforehand!” “Happy New Year, too!” “Hope you’ll get _loads_ of pretty things, and no end of goodies which will bear transportation!” cried a dozen or more girls as they bade good-by to one of their schoolmates just leaving for her Christmas holidays.

Isabel Townsend was truly popular, not only with her schoolmates, but with teachers also. A bright, happy girl who went through life with a laugh and a song, and yet had a strong, noble character, quick to detect sham of any sort, and cordially detest it. She had a long journey before her, and was starting off earlier than the other girls; hence her “send-off.”

Forty-eight hours later the train deposited her at a small station, about fifteen miles from the city of New York, where her father awaited her.

He was a tall, handsome man, who had once enjoyed an independent income, but Wall Street had proved to him, as to many another, anything but “a land of promise.” Still, enough had been saved from the wreck to enable him to live upon the farm which had been his wife’s dower, and even to enjoy some luxuries; but he was a disappointed man, and seemed to have left his faith in his fellow-men behind him in the New York Stock Exchange. He rarely left his farm, where he found occupation in his books and in his live stock, in which he took just pride.

It was a pretty place, nestling among the Jersey hills, and as quiet and secluded as though hundreds of miles from the great city pulsating with life and daily drawing innumerable human beings into the maelstrom where hopes and schemes were lost forever.

“Well, daughter, how are you? Glad to see you home again,” was Mr. Townsend’s greeting, as he helped Isabel into the cutter and tucked the robes carefully about her.

“It’s awfully nice to be home, too; and how is mamma?” she asked, as she nestled close to his side when he had taken his seat beside her.

“Mamma is well and very anxious to have you home. I’m glad to see you looking so well, and that you have decided, after all, to wear your Christmas present beforehand,” he said, as a faint smile overspread his fine face, and he picked up one of the tails of the handsome fur collar Isabel wore.

“Yes, I just _couldn’t_ wait for the day to come. How good you were to send me such a beauty, and to make it so easy for me to do exactly what I was dying to do all the time, by telling me to wear the furs right off and not to wait for Christmas Day.” While she spoke she stroked her pretty collar and muff, and regarded them with very genuine pride.

“Why did you get such expensive ones, daddy?” she continued. “I should have been just as pleased with a simpler style,” and she looked up with her bonny face alive with happiness.

“I’ve only one daughter,” was the brief response.

“Which horse is this, papa? I think I’ve never seen him before; have I?”

“I think not. He is one of Nancy’s colts, and was broken only this fall. He is none too reliable yet; but I use him a great deal and have great expectations of him.”

As though to give Mr. Townsend a hint of what his expectations might realize, the frisky beast at that moment elected to put the laws of gravity to a crucial test. With one bound he leaped into the air, struck out wildly, plunged forward, and took about three minutes to recover his equilibrium, evidently convinced that, so far as history has recorded, Pegasus was not the only horse capable of flying through space.

“What a crazy thing he is!” exclaimed Isabel. “Why didn’t you bring Old Nick? Dear old fellow! How I want to see him! Is he all right?”

“I think so, I think so,” said her father hurriedly. Then Mr. Townsend became much occupied with the colt, and a few moments later home was reached, where, amid warm greetings, Old Nick was, for a time, forgotten.

A few hours later Isabel came in from the stables, where she had been on a tour of inspection, with blank dismay pictured upon her face.

“Daddy,” she cried, bursting into the room, “where is Old Nick? The men say that he is sold, but I won’t believe them. He isn’t, is he?” and her voice was half-choked in sobs.

Mr. Townsend looked up from his desk, and a peculiar expression crept into his face--an expression partly of defiance, partly of self-assertion, partly of shame--but he made no answer. Isabel came toward him as one who doubted her senses, and laying a hand on each of his shoulders peered into his face, with doubt and astonishment on her own.

“Papa, of course you wouldn’t sell Old Nick! Why, he has been mine as long as I can remember, and next to you and mamma, I love him better than anything in the world. Where _is_ he? Please tell me.”

“Isabel, listen to me. You are no longer a child. You are nearly seventeen years old, and you ought to be capable of looking upon things from a practical standpoint. Yes, Nick is sold. I had an excellent offer from a man who was going through the country about six weeks ago, buying up horses. Nick is seventeen years old if he is a day, and such a chance could never be expected again. Mamma wanted to send you a set of furs for Christmas, and the means to purchase them had literally walked to our door. The seventy-five dollars paid for Nick bought them, and you, certainly, should be the last to complain.”

Mr. Townsend picked up his pen as though the matter were dismissed forever. But he little knows his daughter. Her hands fell from his shoulders and she slowly backed away from him, while into her big gray eyes came a look which told of a resolve born of an outraged spirit.