know
whose hen it was."

"Well, that's a fine excuse, isn't it?--a fine excuse, Mr. Beck," I went
on, hotly.

"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.

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