"Dear Bessie, won't you stay here, and let me bring her home alone?" I coaxed.
"No! no! no!" she cried; and so we started together.
"Don't cry, dear," I was saying, as we drove into the farm-yard—her cheeks were all wet again—"don't cry, dear."
When I knocked at Mr. Beck's door, a voice called out, "Come in."
I opened the door, and found Mrs. Beck. I told her we had come to take Coachy home.
Mrs. Beck walked a little toward her hot cook-stove before she spoke:
"Well, we'll give her a live one to take home. I'm certain she can't take the dead one."
"Can't take her!—why?"
"I've got her a-boiling," answered Mrs. Beck.
Boiling!— Coachy boiling! I had been there all this while and hadn't smelled chicken. I felt like talking to Mrs. Beck; but I didn't. I shut my teeth, made her a slight bow, and went out to Bessie.