‘Lame?’
‘No, I took her to the smith.’
‘Give me Alfred’s ointment, please, before you put her up. He is in such a way about it, and we can’t put him to bed—’
‘Haven’t got it.’
‘Not got it! O Harold!’
‘I should like to know how to be minding such things when pony loses a shoe, and such weather! I declare I’m as wet—!’ said Harold angrily, as he saw his sister clasp her hands in distress, and the tears come in her eyes.
‘Is Harold come safe?’ called Mrs. King from above.
‘Is the ointment come?’ cried Alfred, in a piteous pain-worn voice.
Harold stamped his foot, and bolted to the stable to put the pony away.
‘It’s not come,’ said Ellen, coming up-stairs, very sadly.