By the autumn Boy had ceased even to pretend to be unfriendly. It was no use, and she was never much good at pretending.
Then with the fall of the leaves old Ragamuffin began to tumble to pieces.
She watched him closely for a week. Then one October dawn, the mists hanging white in the hollows, she led him out to the edge of the wood before the lads were about. Only Monkey Brand accompanied her.
Herself she held the old pony alongside the new-dug grave, talking to him, stroking his nose. Monkey Brand, of the steady hand and loving heart, did the rest. A quarter of an hour later the girl and the little jockey came back to the yard alone. She was carrying a halter in her hand and talking of Four-Pound-the-Second.
The lads watched her surreptitiously and with brimming eyes. Albert, who prided himself on the hardness of his heart, wept and swore he hadn't.
"I'll lay she feels it," blubbered Stanley, who was not clever enough to conceal his tears.
When Silver came down for the week-end, Old Mat told him what had happened.
"That's the strength in her," he whispered. "Just took and did it, she and Monkey Brand. Never a word to her mother or me—before or since."
But the young man noticed that the girl looked haggard, wistful, more spiritual than usual. He was shy of her, and she of him.