“Come, True, little pony,” she whispered, “he has almost grieved himself to death at parting from you. The very sight of you will make him better.”
Without ado, she led the horse right up the two stone steps and into the kitchen where once he and his mother had stolen soup out of the pot which was even now swinging from the crane. As he recalled the incident he thrust his wide nostrils forward, but, smiling sadly, Mistress Whitman drew him to the inner door. His shod hoofs made an unseemly stamping, and a feeble voice from beyond called:
“Nay, wife, there must be something wrong!”
Mistress Whitman opened the door wide and let light into the darkened room.
“Instead, dear husband, ’tis very right,” she cried, cheerily, “for here is our precious colt come to visit with you.”
True found himself in a small, bare room, standing beside a cot, and, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he recognized his old master, wasted with illness, lying helpless before him, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright with fever. The affectionate little horse nosed among the quilts, trying to express his joy at seeing his old friend and at the same time his grief at finding him so weak and ill.
“Wife,” called the sick man, presently, “wife, fetch me some maple sugar and do go into the barn and give the colt all there is left of food there.”
“I will pay you well, Mistress,” said Master Morgan, from the doorway.
“Pay us, sir?” said the feeble voice from the cot, “pay us, sir? For feeding True? Why, bless you, he is one of my own family. I should as soon think of taking pay for food I might give my good wife, there. ’Twas only misfortune that led me to part with our pet. But you mean well, sir, and I bear you no ill-will.”
It was thus that True was loved by those who understood his nature.