At the Farm 
Smith was not surprised in the least. “I’ve no 
doubt he could. I don’t doubt it at all,” he 
said. 
Passing along the little lane to the old build- 
ings (may smelt fragrant there), we reached the 
Stable and saw the mare. The carter had come 
back and stood by—a man with thick, leathery- 
looking face, nothing of a chin, but wide, good- 
tempered mouth and clear eyes. Mr. Smith 
briefly examined the mare (“She’s gettin’ a 
big udder,”’ the carter had reported when we 
met him on the road), then suggested, “ Not 
afore Sunday?” 
“I don’t think so,” the carter assented. 
“Well, shift her over presently, and give her 
a look just afore you goes to bed. And of course 
if it should be necessary, come for me. But I 
don’t think we shall need to begin watchin’ 
before Sunday.” 
We went out, across the empty yard—so 
quiet inside its grey boulder walls—to a big 
wooden shed now strewn with clean straw “ for 
a sort of lyin’-in place,” Mr. Smith explained. 
One side of it—mere stanchions weather-boarded 
—had been lately shored-up with limbs of trees, 
lest the mare should fall against the boards and 
break them out. All sorts of precautions had 
been taken. Lastly, the mare, bought for £35, 
had been insured for one month from the day of 
25 
