The
third time, when she saw them all run whinnying down to the further end
of the paddock, after half an hour or so of weary work driving them up,
when she had run herself off her poor tottering legs, and saw that all
her toil was in vain, then she sank down on the cold hard gravel in the
yard, with her long black hair streaming loose along the ground, and
prayed that she might die. Down at full length, in front of her own
door, like a dead woman, moaning and crying, from time to time, "Oh, my
boy, my boy."
How long she lay there she knew not. She heard a horse's feet, but only
stopped her ears from the news she thought was coming. Then she heard a
steady heavy footstep close to her, and some one touched her, and tried
to raise her.
She sat up, shook the hair from her eyes, and looked at the man who
stood beside her. At first she thought it was a phantom of her own
brain, but then looking wildly at the calm, solemn features, and the
kindly grey eyes which were gazing at her so inquiringly, she pronounced
his name--"Frank Maberly."
"God save you, madam,," he said. "What is the matter?"
"Misery, wrath, madness, despair!" she cried wildly, raising her hand.
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