I was drinking a cup of coffee when Bessie came skipping into the breakfast-room. When she saw trouble in my face she put away her smile, and crept softly up to me. She told me she had been hunting and hunting for me. She rubbed her pink cheek against my whiskers, declaring that she couldn't make me out at all. She said it was time now to go to the farm.
"Bessie dear," I said, as I took her hand, "I wouldn't go up to the farm to-day."
Surprise came over her face; then trouble with surprise. "Why, uncle?" she said, softly.
"It isn't nice at the farm," I went on, vaguely; "don't go. I just came from there. Don't go, Bessie."
"Why, uncle?" she said again, softly—"why, uncle?" Then all in a breath her fingers bound themselves tight about mine. "Did you see my Coachy?—did you see her?" she hurriedly asked.
I stooped and held the little form just one moment, then said, "No," and then, somehow, I told her.
I did not have a great deal to tell; she guessed over half; and then what a shivering, sobbing little burden it was that I held in my arms!
I don't believe I will try to tell you how she cried, or all she said, as we sat in the parlor that forenoon; it might make me cry to talk it over. Her tiny pocket-handkerchief soon got wet through, and she had to have my great big purple silk one; and more than once did I hear her moan, "Oh, Coachy is dead! my Coachy is dead!" When at last she strove to dry her eyes—poor, swollen eyes—it was truly a difficult matter. At first it seemed of no use to try, for again and again they would fill up, and spill the tears over her cheeks. We had to go and bathe them finally, and then Bessie walked into the kitchen and brokenly told Bridget the news.
A moment later I found her in the hall, tying on her hat. "I must go and bring her home," she said, hurriedly.
She was out of the house, and had called on Dennis to harness the horse, before I had time to consider.