Smirke knew the way to the stable, as he said, well enough.

He fumbled at the girths of the saddle, which Pen fastened for him, and put on the bridle and led the pony into the yard.

The boy was touched by the grief which appeared in the other's face as he mounted.

Pen held out his hand, and Smirke wrung it silently.
"I say, Smirke," he said in an agitated voice, "forgive me if I have said anything harsh--for you have always been very, very kind to me.

But it can't be, old fellow, it can't be.