ust opposite the crowd that
surrounded Diggory. A dark blind was pulled down inside, because it was
Wednesday and early-closing day. This made a fine mirror, and Diggory
happened to look in it, and there he saw himself--an old, old
white-haired man on a white horse. He had a white beard, too, but it was
quite short, because it had only had since bedtime last night to grow
in.

He almost tumbled off his horse. The landlord of the Ship led him in
to sit by the fire in the bar parlour, and the eight horses were put up
in the stable.

The old man who had told him about the mill came and sat by him, and
poor old Diggory asked questions till he grew tired of hearing the
answer, which was always the same: 'Dead, dead, dead!'

Then he sat silent, and the people in the bar talked about his horses,
and a young man said:

'I wish I'd got e'er a one on 'em. I'd do a tidy bit in fish, an' set up
for myself--so I would.'

'Young man,' said Diggory, 'you may take one of them; its name is
Invicta.'

The young man could hardly believe his fortunate ears. Diggory felt his
heart warm to think that he had made someone else so happy. He felt
actually younger. And next morning he made up his mind to give away all
the horses but one. That one he would sell, and its price would keep him
for the rest of his life: he hoped that would not be long, for he did
not care to go on living now that he had seen the tombstones in the
churchyard with the names of his father and brothers and little Joyce of
the mill.

He led his horses away next day. He did not want to give them all away
in one village, because that would have lessened the value of his gift
to the young man who was going into fish, and, besides, it would have
been awkward to have so many horses of the same name in one village.

He gave away a horse at each village he passed through, and with every
horse he gave away he felt happier and lighter. And when he had given
away the fourth his rheumatism went, and when he had given away the
seventh his beard was gone.

'Now,' he said to himself, 'I will ride home and end my days in my own
village, and be buried with my own people.'

So he turned his horse's head towards home, and he felt so gay and
light-limbed he could hardly believe that he was really an old, old man.
And he rode on.

And at the end of the village he stopped and rubbed his eyes, for there
stood the Round Mound windmill, and on the slope was Joyce, looking
prettier