The next morning Maggie was worse. Catharine was in the stable as soon
as anybody was stirring, and the poor creature was trembling violently.
She was watched with the most tender care, and when she became too weak
to stand to eat or drink she was slung with soft bands and pads. Her
groans were dreadful. After about a week of cruel misery she died. It
was evening, and Catharine sat down and looked at what was left of her
friend. She had never before even partly realised what death meant. She
was too young to feel its full force. The time was yet to come when
death would mean despair--when the insolubility of the problem would
induce carelessness to all other problems and their solution.
Furthermore, this was only a horse. Still, the contrast struck her
between the corpse before her and Maggie with her bright eyes and vivid
force. What had become of all that strength; what had become of
_her_?--and the girl mused, as countless generations had mused before
her. Then there was the pathos of it. She thought of the brave animal
which she had so often seen, apparently for the mere love of difficulty,
struggling as if its sinews would crack. She thought of its glad
recognition when she came into the stable, and of its evident affection,
half human, or perhaps wholly human, and imprisoned in a form which did
not permit full expression. She looked at its body as it lay there
extended, quiet, pleading as it were against the doom of man and of
beast, and tears came to her eyes as she noted the appeal--tears not
altogether of sorrow, but partly of revolt.

Mr. Bellamy came in.

"Ah, Miss Catharine, I don't wonder at it. There's many a human as I
should less have missed than Maggie. I can't make out at times why we
should love the beasts so as perish."