“Nawthin', night's too black,” said the tavern-keeper; “you're alius a hearin' what no one else do, Beaman.” No star nor human eye had seen the black speck on the wild water, and no hand lent it aid to land. In ugly silence Silas smoked his pipe, while equally still, Maria washed the dishes. She stepped to throw the dish-water outside the door and then she heard a sound. The night was so quiet a noise traveled miles. What was it, that steady smothered thud up the lane where so seldom a stranger came? Was it only the beating of her heart after all? She shut the door behind her and hurried out, wrapping her wet cold hands in her apron. Suddenly there came a long, joyful neigh! “How on airth did that critter git home?” cried Silas, jumping to his feet. Nearer, nearer, in a grand gallop, with tense muscles and quivering limbs, with upraised head and flying mane, with eager eyes, nearer, in great leaps thrusting time and distance far behind, came that apparition of the night. “Oh, my God!” cried the woman wildly, “old Tige has come home--come home to this place, and there is one living thing that loves it!” The light flared out from the open door. “How on airth did he git across the river?” said Silas, querulously. “An' how am I goin' to git him back in this weather?” There he stood, the noble old horse that her boy had raised from a colt, had ridden, had given to her when he went away. “Mother,” her boy had said, “be good to old Tige. If ever father wants to sell him, don't you let him. I'd come back from my grave if the old horse was abused--the only thing I loved, that loved me in this place I cannot call a home. Remember he has been so faithful.” Ay, he had been faithful, in long, hot summer days, in wide, weary fields, in breaking the stony soil for others' harvest, in bringing wood from the far forest, in every way of burden and work. He stood quivering with cold, covered with ice, panting after his wild gallop; but he was home, poor brute mind! That old farm was his home: he had frolicked in its green fields as a colt, had carried a merryvoiced young master, had worked and rested in that old place; he might be ill-treated and starved, he did not grieve, he did not question, for it was home! He could not understand why this time the old master had not taken him away; never before had he been left in Bath. In his brute way he reasoned he had been forgotten, and when his chance came, leaped from the barn, running as horse never ran before, plunged off the wharf into the black waves, swam across and galloped to his home.