"Why, I wouldn't have touched 'er 'f I'd known 'er," argued Mr. Beck. "I didn't know where she come from."
"And that's your way, I take it—to lay hold and kill a thing when you don't know where it comes from. I wonder if you killed a horse as you came along. I tied one at your door ten minutes ago."
I walked off a few steps to calm myself a little. I thought of poor Bessie. Mr. Beck mumbled something, and started for the barn.
"Mr. Beck," I called after him, "what have you done with her?"
"How say!"
"Where is she—Coachy—the hen?"
He pointed with his thumb toward the barn, and went in.
I thought he would be out in a minute. As he did not appear, I followed to the door, and looked in. I could neither see nor hear the man: he had vanished.
It was a hint for me to go, certainly. With a troubled heart I rode slowly back to town, and as I rode I pondered, asking myself what I should say to Bessie. Should I tell her Coachy was lost? "Get on, pony," I said at length; "we must tell her the truth."
Upon entering the driveway I noticed Bessie in the garden picking flowers. She saw me, and beckoned; but I could not go to her then. I unsaddled the horse, led him into his stall, and fed him, and then I stole into the house. A box was standing at one corner of the porch, with a perch, and a nest, and a little trough for corn, and a little cup for water. It was waiting to go to the farm.