"Frisky still, old lady," Rupert remarked; "I should have thought your journey to-night might have taken that out of you. Come on," and he slipped off her bridle, and holding her mane walked beside her into the stall, where he put on her halter.
"It is too wet still to make your toilette out of doors," he went on; "so you must be quiet while I rub you down here."
And after having taken off his hat and coat and waistcoat, Rupert set too and groomed that mare "proper," to quote the expression of Turner, the man who held the light.
And then he brought her a warm mash, and forked her up a comfortable bed, which Bess at once devoted herself to pawing out behind her; having accomplished which feat, and vaunted herself to her stable companions about the evening's work she had performed, she lay down to sleep on the bare pavement.
This was her pleasant fancy, which is shared by many a dog.
After all, there was much of a dog's nature about Bess—notably as far as faithfulness and affection were concerned.
Rupert walked back to the house and asked Esther to make him some coffee. Whilst she was preparing it, he went softly to his own room, changed his wet clothes, washed, brushed his curly hair, and otherwise made himself presentable; then he went downstairs again and entered the library, where he found coffee awaiting his arrival.
"My sister is gone to bed, I suppose," he said to Esther.
"Yes, sir, Miss Halling was very tired, and thought you would not be back to-night."
"And Mrs. Mortomley?"