The old white horse which drew it planted his great hoofs lumberingly in the tracks, nodding at every step.
As it came nearer, Jerome, watching, gave a quick gasp.

The wagon contained wood nicely packed; the reins were wound carefully around one of the stakes; and there was no driver.

Jerome tried to call out, tried to run forward, but he could not.

He could only stand still, watching, his boyish face deadly white, his eyes dilating.

The old white horse came on, dragging his load faithfully and steadily towards his home.