Hubert put down his cake and looked at Mrs. Busson.
“Anything wrong with the bun, my dear?” she asked.
“No,” answered Hubert, “but may I give it to the poor horse?”
Hubert was very fond of cake, but the thought of anything within his reach that was hungrier than himself, always quenched his appetite.
“Bless your dear heart!” cried Mrs. Busson, “that mouthful of bun wouldn’t do the poor thing any good.” Then noting Hubert’s look of disappointment, she added, “But look here, when you’ve finished your tea, you go out to Busson in the yard and tell him from me to ask the ostler for sixpennyworth of oats, and then Master Jack’ll go across the Green with you, and Master Phil too, I daresay, and help you to give them to the poor pony.”
Charmed with this delightful prospect, Hubert finished his tea, with equal enjoyment and alacrity, and then all the party arose from the table to assist in the feeding of the poor white starveling.
And perhaps this closing scene was the brightest moment in all that long bright summer afternoon.
“My word! won’t he enjoy himself!” cried Jack, who under Busson’s directions had presented the feast of oats in a pail of water. “I bet it’s the first time in your life, you’ve ever had such a blow out, you wretched specimen.”
“He’s a poor, poor thing, but very ugly,” said Hubert, with more truth than tenderness for his protegé. “Oh! Gaston, Gaston, how can you?”
For Gaston had laid his cheek against the neglected creature’s dirty matted mane, and was stroking his untempting coat with hands as gentle and caressing as if he were fondling some faultlessly groomed, satin-coated pony.