"Coachy.
"P. S.—Please don't ever hug me again as you did on the lawn last Sunday. I thought I should choke."
Bessie was smiling; still in the same moment she had to put up her hand and whisk something away from her cheek. I knew what it was—a tear.
"Uncle," she said, putting both hands into her apron pockets, "let's take Coachy to the farm to-morrow;" and we did.
Early next morning we drove out of town, the dear old hen in Bessie's arms, and Bessie and I in the phaeton. Bessie talked softly to her favorite all the way; and when we reached the farm, I have an idea that, in spite of the request in the postscript, Coachy was hugged as hard as she ever was hugged in her life. Down the lane we went toward a group of noisy fowls. The nearer we came to them, the harder was Coachy hugged. I began to be anxious. Her mouth was open, and each particular toe was standing out stiff and straight. Bessie's nose and lips were out of sight in the ruffled back, and Coachy had closed her eyes.
"Darling," said the little girl, steadily, "good-by," and she bravely dropped her pet beside the old companions.
We saw her shake herself, eye the others a moment, and walk quietly into the crowd.
The man who lived on Bessie's papa's farm was named Beck. We hunted all over for Mr. Beck to tell him there was a guest among the poultry; but he was not to be found. So we got into the carriage and started for home.
My little niece was silent during nearly all of our drive back to Featherdale. Her mind was still filled full of Coachy.
By-and-by, though, the cherry lips opened.