He
had been cast down. He had fallen from higher and happier things. With
his `arched neck,' and with other points which not neglect nor ill-
usage could rob of their old grace, he had kept something of his
fallen day about him. In the window of the little shop outside which
he stood were things that seemed to match him--things appealing to the
sense that he appealed to. A tarnished French mirror, a strip of faded
carpet, some rows of battered, tattered books, a few cups and saucers
that had erst been riveted and erst been dusted--all these, in a
gallimaufry of other languid odds and ends, seen through this mud-
splashed window, silently echoed the silent misery of the horse. They
were remembering Zion. They had been beautiful once, and expensive,
and well cared for, and admired, and coveted. And now...
They had, at least, the consolation of being indoors. Public laughing-
stock though they were, they had a barrier of glass between themselves
and the irreverent world. To be warm and dry, too, was something.
Piteous, they could yet afford to pity the horse. He was more
ludicrously, more painfully, misplaced than they. A real blood-horse
that has done his work is rightly left in the open air--turned out
into some sweet meadow or paddock. It would be cruel to make him spend
his declining years inside a house, where no grass is.
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