Peace returned at about dusk.
To his inquiry in the house, he was informed by Mrs. Thompson that the gipsy was in the stable, and that he, the gipsy, had informed her some hour or more ago that the pony was not expected to live.
Peace went into the stable, and found his equine pet stretched on the floor. Rawton was kneeling by its side, and had its head on one of his knees.
“Well,” cried Peace—“what news?”
“He’s a dead un,” returned the gipsy. “All his troubles are over. I’ve done all it was possible for a man to do, but couldn’t save him, poor little fellow!”
Peace sat himself down on an inverted pail, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.
“It aint of no manner of use giving way so,” said Rawton. “It was to be. I said so the moment I set eyes upon him this ’ere morning. There wasn’t a ghost of a chance.”
“I’ve lost my best friend—my faithful companion,” murmured Peace. “Ah, Bill, but this is terrible.”
“It may be so, but there are worse misfortunes than this. Keep your pecker up, and don’t take on so. You laughed at me a few days ago when I gave you an account of Hester Teige. Now you are worse than what I was.”
“I would have given anything to have saved him.”