The widow
was mad all over that Squire Hopkins should take such a mean advantage
of his rival. Why didn't he wait till another time when the deacon was
alone, as he was? If she had her way she never would, speak to Squire
Hopkins again, nor to his wife, either. But her resentment was not
helping the deacon's horse to win.
Slowly the squire pulled closer to the front; the deacon's horse,
realizing what it meant to his master and to him, spurted bravely,
but, struggle as gamely as he might, the odds were too many for him,
and he dropped to the rear. The squire shouted in triumph as he drew
past the deacon, and the dejected Hawkins shrivelled into a heap on
the seat, with only his hands sufficiently alive to hold the lines. He
had been beaten again, humiliated before a woman, and that, too, with
the best horse that he could hope to put against the ever-conquering
squire. Here sank his fondest hopes, here ended his ambition. From
this on he would drive a mule or an automobile. The fruit of his
desire had turned to ashes in his mouth.
But no. What of the widow? She realized, if the deacon did not, that
she, not the squire's horse, had beaten the deacon's, and she was
ready to make what atonement she could.
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