"It was the pluckiest attempt I ever saw!" he cried with the generosity of the victor. "That black filly had never known the feel of a collar, till twenty minutes since…. I was to have broken her this autumn."
"She was the least bit awkward at the start," mused the other. "But she handled sweetly all the same."
"We had all the luck," continued the Parson. "But for that plank, you'd have brought it off. It'll be your turn next time!"
The other lifted his face swiftly.
"Ah, no," he cried, "you mistake. That's nothing! It's this!"
He pointed.
Fifty yards away the wain lay wrecked on the greensward, the old white mare crumpled in the shafts. She was stone-dead, and her muzzle, with its coarse long hairs, was resting on the quarters of her daughter.
"That's the worst of war," said the Gentleman in that remote voice of his. "We know; they don't."
"I expect it's all fairer than it seems," said the Parson huskily.
The other nodded.