It's a pretty state of things if an old woman like me, without a chick of my own, and with no sense but horse sense, can't back a likely filly like your Sylvia.

I want you to let me call her our Sylvia.

We'll train her in all the paces, Andrew, and I hope one of us will live to see her strike the home stretch.

Come into my office a minute," she said, rising and leading the way.
The appointments of her "office" were plain and substantial.

A flat-topped desk stood in the middle of the room--a relic of the lamented Jackson Owen; in one corner was an old-fashioned iron safe in which she kept her account books.