.

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.

"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.

"I haven't got her, darling."

She was back among the cushions, with her hands over her eyes.

"Haven't got her?"

"No, and I can't get her."

"Why, we _must_ get her!" she cried, straightening up. "_Why_ can't we
get her?"

"Why," said I, gently as I could--"why, they are--cooking her."

Bessie's cheeks flamed. In less time than it takes to tell it she sprang
from the carriage, burst open the kitchen door, ran against a toddling
boy, blindly knocked him over, and faced Mrs. Beck.

"How did you _dare_ do such a thing!" she almost screamed, seizing the
astonished woman by her dr