"I guess he's a smart pony, but you must take him right out, Cyril," said Cynthy.
"Oh, yes, of course. Come, Blackie." He led him into the little kitchen, telling him repeatedly that he was to be a good pony and stay quietly there. But Blackie whinnied a little, seeing no prospect of food.
"Oh, poor Blackie!" cried the boy sympathisingly; "what will you do without food?" He returned to Cynthy, who was spreading out a nice little repast of sandwiches, bottled milk, cheese, and bread and butter on the rough table.
"Were all these things in that basket?" asked Cyril, looking at the one they had fetched from the sleigh.
"All except the sandwiches. Your father provided those," she replied.
"But I say, Cyril," she added, "aren't you going to feed that pony of yours?"
"I only wish I could," he replied earnestly. "But unless you would give me a slice of bread for him, I don't know what there is for him to eat."
"Why, what do you imagine there is in this bag?" asked the girl, producing a coarse canvas bag from amongst the rugs she had thrown down in a corner.
"Oh! is it corn?"
"Corn and chopped hay," she replied. "The very thing for Blackie. I brought it for my horses, but didn't give it to them, for they can find their way home."