Being thus hopelessly debarred from any communication with external
nature, and fearing to give myself up to my own thoughts, which were of a
somewhat dangerous character, I endeavored to engage my companion in
lively and cheerful converse by the way; but he was in a position of
actual physical suffering, for the reins were short--too short, that is,
to form a happy connecting link between him and the horse, and poor
Lovell was obliged to lean forward at an acute angle in order to grasp
them at all. Whenever the ghostly quadruped made a plunge forward, as he
not unfrequently did, Lovell was thrust violently down into the straw,
and throughout all this he comported himself with such firm and hopeless
dignity that, with the respect due to suffering, I was moved to witness
the struggle, at length, with silent commiseration. Once, having kept his
seat for a longer time than usual, Lovell said:--
"I'll give you a riddle, Miss Hungerford, _I_ will. Ahem! 'Why--why does
a hen go around the road,' Miss Hungerford?"
I posed my head in an attitude of deep thought.
"Because," Lovell hastened to say; "because she can't go across--no, that
wasn't right--why--ahem! why does a hen go _across_ the road, Miss
Hungerford?" and the next instant he was wallowing in the straw at my
feet.
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