r about a week of cruel misery she died. It
was evening, and Catharine sat down and looked at what was left of her
friend. She had never before even partly realised what death meant. She
was too young to feel its full force. The time was yet to come when
death would mean despair--when the insolubility of the problem would
induce carelessness to all other problems and their solution.
Furthermore, this was only a horse. Still, the contrast struck her
between the corpse before her and Maggie with her bright eyes and vivid
force. What had become of all that strength; what had become of
_her_?--and the girl mused, as countless generations had mused before
her. Then there was the pathos of it. She thought of the brave animal
which she had so often seen, apparently for the mere love of difficulty,
struggling as if its sinews would crack. She thought of its glad
recognition when she came into the stable, and of its evident affection,
half human, or perhaps wholly human, and imprisoned in a form which did
not permit full expression. She looked at its body as it lay there
extended, quiet, pleading as it were against the doom of man and of
beast, and tears came to her eyes as she noted the appeal--tears not
altogether of sorrow, but partly of revolt.

Mr. Bellamy came in.

"Ah, Miss Catharine, I don't wonder at it. There's many a human as I
should less have missed than Maggie. I can't make out at times why we
should love the beasts so as perish."

"Perhaps they don't."

"Really, Miss, of course they do. What's the Lord to do with all the
dead horses and cows?"

Catharine thought, "Or with the dead men and women," but she said
nothing. The subject was new to her. She took her scissors and cut off
a wisp of Maggie's beautiful mane, twisted it up, put it carefully in a
piece of paper, and placed it in a little pocket-book which she always
carried. The next morning as soon as it was daylight a man came over
from Eastthorpe; Maggie was hoisted into a cart, her legs dangling down
outside, and was driven away to be converted into food for dogs.

One of Catharine's favourite haunts was a meadow by the bridge. She was
not given to reading, but she liked a stroll and, as there were plenty of
rats, the dog enjoyed the stroll too. Not a week after Maggie's death
she had wandered to this point without her usual companion. A barge had
gone down just before she arrived, and for some reason or other had made
fast to the