They passed through the yard, jolted noisily over the cobbles, and turned into a great cool loose-box, deep in moss-litter.
"I'll go and get the bottle," said the girl. "George, just run and bring a couple of armfuls of litter-grass off the stack and pile it in that corner."
When she returned with the bottle, the barrow was empty, and the foal lay quiet on a heap of brown grass in the corner.
It whinnied and essayed to stand.
"It's coming, honey," said Boy in her deep, comforting voice.
The foal sucked greedily and with quivering tail.
From outside in the yard came the pleasant clatter of horses' feet on the cobbles.
The string was returning.
In another moment Old Mat was standing in the door of the loose-box, grunting to himself, as he watched the little group within.
Boy, in her long riding-coat, stood in the dim loose-box, her fair hair shining, tilting the bottle, while the foal, with lifted head and ecstatic tail, sucked.