n.

Close beside her child lay the mother, her neck extended along the
green, her eyes blood-shot.

As the girl rode up, the old mare raised her gaunt, well-bred head and
snorted, but made no effort to rise.

Boy dismounted.

"Hold Ragamuffin, will you?" she said.

Silver, himself dismounted now, obeyed.

Boy knelt in the bracken and felt the mare's heart.

The young man stood some distance off and watched her.

"Pretty bad, isn't she?" he said gravely.

"Go and tell mother, please," replied the girl, still on her knees. "And
send one of the lads with a rug and a wheelbarrow."

The young man walked away down the hillside, leading the two ponies.

Left alone, Boy brushed away the flies that had settled in black clouds
on the mare's face. The foal repeated its ungainly efforts, whimpering
in a deep and muffled voice, like the wind in a cave. The urge of hunger
was on it, and it did not understand why it was not satisfied. Boy went
to it, and thrust her thumbs into its soft and toothless mouth. The
foal, entirely unafraid, sucked with quivering tail and such power that
the girl thought her thumbs would be drawn off. The old mare whinnied,
jealous, perhaps, of her usurped function.

In another moment Mrs. Woodburn's tall and stately form came through the
gate and laboured up the hill. She was wearing a white apron and carried
a sheet in her hand.

Soon she stood beside her daughter, breathing deeply, and looking down
upon the mare.

"Bad job, Boy," she said.

"Have you brought a thermometer?" asked the girl.

Mrs. Woodburn nodded, and inserted the instrument under the old mare's
elbow, laying an experienced hand on her muzzle.

"If she'd make an effort," she said in her slow way. "But she can't be
bothered. That's Black Death."

Silver, looking ridiculously elegant in his shirt-sleeves and spotless
breeches, came up the hill toward them, trundling a dingy stable barrow.
Behind him trotted a lad, trailing a rug.

"We must just let her bide," said Mrs. Woodburn. "Lay that sheet over
her, George, to keep the flies off, and get a handful of sweet hay and
put it under her nose to peck at it. You've brought the barrow, Mr.
Silver. Thank you."

"Can you lift the foal in?" asked Boy.

"I guess," answered the young man, stripping up sleeves in which the
gold links shone.

"Oh! your poor clothes!" cried Mrs. Woodburn. "Whatever would your
mother say? Put on my apron, do."

The young man obeyed, gravely