“And I can easily sell the pony and trap for what you gave,” pursued Sam. “Hall, the butcher at Millsby, wants one for his wife. He’d jump at it.”
“Well, I’ll think the matter over,” said Andy. “You can go.”
But when he was alone the hot tea began to stimulate him, and he had a very pleasant sensation of repose after all the fresh air, following his sleepless night, and his depression suddenly lifted in that odd way which every one recognises who suffers from it at all. It is as if a cloud passed away from the spirit.
So Andy began to see that the end of everything was not come because he could not see Elizabeth for twenty-four hours. Then he remembered how the little pony had trotted on through the sunshine and through the rain like the game little creature it was, and he began to feel the first stirring of that affection which a decent man has for the horse or the dog that serves him faithfully. No, he would keep the pony, though it was such a secular-looking little animal, and he would go out now to see if the hot mash had been administered.
He stuffed a few lumps of sugar from the basin into his pocket, and went out into the stables, where he found Sam. He was afraid Sam would have to go after all.
“Enjoying his feed, sir. Not a penny the worse,” said the culprit with a sort of chastened pleasantness.
Then he glanced at the cream-coloured spots and his mouth began to twitch, and he caught Andy’s eye, and Andy’s mouth was twitching too, and before they knew where they were, the big echoing stable was ringing with uproarious laughter.
“Beg pardon, sir, but it sort o’ came over me how funny it was,” gasped Sam, wiping his eyes. “When I see you drive in—all piebald—when you’d gone out plain brown—you might have knocked me down with a feather.”
Andy wiped his eyes, too, and pulled himself together.
“You ought not to have lied about it, Sam. Why did you say the pony was struck by lightning?”