We advance into the stable yard behind; I
assist my wife to dismount--and there we are in the position already
disclosed to view at the opening of this narrative. No bell to ring. No
human creature to answer when I call. I stand helpless, with the bridles
of the horses in my hand. Mrs. Fairbank saunters gracefully down the
length of the yard and does--what all women do, when they find themselves
in a strange place. She opens every door as she passes it, and peeps in.
On my side, I have just recovered my breath, I am on the point of shouting
for the hostler for the third and last time, when I hear Mrs. Fairbank
suddenly call to me:
"Percy! come here!"
Her voice is eager and agitated. She has opened a last door at the end of
the yard, and has started back from some sight which has suddenly met her
view. I hitch the horses' bridles on a rusty nail in the wall near me, and
join my wife. She has turned pale, and catches me nervously by the arm.
"Good heavens!" she cries; "look at that!"
I look--and what do I see? I see a dingy little stable, containing two
stalls. In one stall a horse is munching his corn. In the other a man is
lying asleep on the litter.
A worn, withered, woebegone man in a hostler's dress. His hollow wrinkled
cheeks, his scanty grizzled hair, his dry yellow skin, tell their own tale
of past sorrow or suffering.
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