Ah! but the parson spoiled the whole thing by looking so happy. His wife and children could read his face as easily as telling the clock. There was a regular shout of “Dumps! O! pa, it must be Dumps!”
His wife snatched the lantern out of his hand, and the children, wild with joy, ran after her, so that instead of being first in the stable the parson was the very last.
There was no occasion now to hide tears as they caressed the old pony, for they were tears of joy. Dumps was back, and nickering in the old foolish fond way, and nosing everybody all over in turn.
“Isn’t it first-rate?” Dumps seemed to say; “fancy being back again among you all; and how is the grass, and how is the rose-tree, and how is the dumpling?”
When we returned at last to the parlour, the parson glanced at his family and burst out laughing, and the members of his family looked at each other and laughed too. And no wonder, for what with the rain, and the coal-dust of the pony’s neck, I never before or since have seen a family of faces that more needed washing.
But what did that signify? Wasn’t Dumps in the stable once more?