Jim caught her as she came blindly past him.
"Kiddie--it's no good--you mustn't!"
"I must," she said, and broke from him, running up the hillside. Jim
followed her with a long stride, his arm round her as she stumbled
through the ferns and boulders. When they came to Bobs he held her back
for a moment.
The pony was nearly done. As they looked his head beat the ground again
unavailingly, and at the piteous sight a dry sob broke from Norah, and
she went on her knees by him.
"Norah--dear little chap--you mustn't." Jim's voice was choking. "He
doesn't know what he's doing, poor old boy--it isn't safe."
"He wants me," she said. "Bobs--dear Bobs!"
At the voice he knew the pony quivered and struggled to rise. It was no
use--he fell back, though the beautiful head lifted itself, and the
brown eyes tried to find her. She sat down and took his head on her
knee, stroking his neck and speaking to him... broken, pitiful words.
Presently she put her cheek down to him, and crouched there above him.
Something of his agony died out of Bobs' eyes. He did not struggle any
more. After a little he gave a long shiver, straightening out; and so
died, gently.
* * * * *
"Come on home, old kiddie."
It seemed a long time after, Norah could not think of a time when she
had done anything but sit with that quiet head on her knee.
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