Imagination. On days that were bright and clear the two could be

seen riding down Peachtree Street, Rhett reining in his big black

horse to keep pace with the fat pony's gait. Sometimes they went

tearing down the quiet roads about the town, scattering chickens

and dogs and children, Bonnie beating Mr. Butler with her crop, her

tangled curls flying, Rhett holding in his horse with a firm hand

that she might think Mr. Butler was winning the race.

When he had assured himself of her seat, her hands, her utter

fearlessness, Rhett decided that the time had come for her to learn

to make the low jumps that were within the reach of Mr. Butler's

short legs. To this end, he built a hurdle in the back yard and

paid Wash, one of Uncle Peter's small nephews, twenty-five cents a

day to teach Mr. Butler to jump. He began with a bar two inches

from the ground and gradually worked up the height to a foot.

This arrangement met with the disapproval of the three parties

concerned, Wash, Mr. Butler and Bonnie. Wash was afraid of horses

and only the princely sum offered induced him to take the stubborn

pony over the bar dozens of times a day; Mr. Butler, who bore with

equanimity having his tail pulled by his small mistress and his

hooves examined constantly, felt that the Creator of ponies had not

Intended him to put his fat body over the bar; Bonnie, who could

not bear to see anyone else upon her pony, danced with impatience

while Mr. Butler was learning his lessons.

When Rhett finally decided that the pony knew his business well

enough to trust Bonnie upon him, the child's excitement was

boundless. She made her first jump with flying colors and,

thereafter, riding abroad with her father held no charms for her.

Scarlett could not help laughing at the pride and enthusiasm of

father and daughter. She thought, however, that once the novelty

had passed, Bonnie would turn to other things and the neighborhood

would have some peace. But this sport did not pall. There was a

bare track worn from the arbor at the far end of the yard to the

hurdle, and all morning long the yard resounded with excited yells.

Grandpa Merriwether, who had made the overland trip in 1849, said

that the yells sounded just like an Apache after a successful

scalping.

After the first week, Bonnie begged for a higher bar, a bar that

was a foot and a half from the ground.

"When you are six years old," said Rhett. "Then you'll be big

enough for a higher jump and I'll buy you a bigger horse. Mr.

Butler's legs aren't long enough."

"They are, too, I jumped Aunt Melly's rose bushes and they are

'normously high!"

"No, you must wait," said Rhett, firm for once. But the firmness

gradually faded away before her incessant importunings and

tantrums.

"Oh, all right," he said with a laugh one morning and moved the

narrow white cross bar higher. "If you fall off, don't cry and

blame me!"

"Mother!" screamed Bonnie, turning her head up toward Scarlett's

bedroom. "Mother! Watch me! Daddy says I can!"

Scarlett, who was combing her hair, came to the window and smiled

down at the tiny excited figure, so absurd in the soiled blue

habit.

"I really must get her another habit," she thought. "Though Heaven

only knows how I'll make her give up that dirty one."

"Mother, watch!"

"I'm watching dear," said Scarlett smiling.

As Rhett lifted the child and set her on the pony, Scarlett called

with a swift rush of pride at the straight back and the proud set

of the head,

"You're mighty pretty, precious!"

"So are you," said Bonnie generously and, hammering a heel into Mr.

Butler's ribs, she galloped down the yard toward the arbor.

"Mother, watch me take this one!" she cried, laying on the crop.

WATCH ME TAKE THIS ONE!

Memory rang a bell far back in Scarlett's mind. There was

something ominous about those words. What was it? Why couldn't

she remember? She looked down at her small daughter, so lightly

poised on the galloping pony and her brow wrinkled as a chill swept

swiftly through her breast. Bonnie came on with a rush, her crisp

black curls jerking, her blue eyes blazing.

"They are like Pa's eyes," thought Scarlett, "Irish blue eyes and

she's just like him in every way."

And, as she thought of Gerald, the memory for which she had been

fumbling came to her swiftly, came with the heart stopping clarity

of summer lightning, throwing, for an instant, a whole countryside