“So would I, but it wasn’t to be done—so it’s no manner of use talking about it; ’cause why, talking or mourning won’t bring him to life again.”
“Of course, I know that very well, but I can’t help grieving. He was my pet, was to me as faithful and docile as a dog. There never was such a faithful creature, and I have killed him. That’s what makes me so miserable—I have killed him.”
“You’ve done nothing of the sort. He was bad at the time, and it is likely enough that he would have died just the same if he had not been put out to such a killing pace. Cheer up, Charlie, it can’t be helped, there are other ponies in the world.”
“Ah, but not like him, none like him.”
“Maybe there are, who knows?”
“Ah, who, indeed? Not I.”
Despite the exhortations of Rawton, Peace could not readily get over the poignant sorrow he felt at the loss of his pony.
This may appear strange with one of his callous temperament. But the fact remains the same, and many persons could testify to the great grief he demonstrated on this occasion.
It passed over, however, in the course of a few days, and Charles Peace was then himself again.