The stables at Monkland Court were as large as many country houses.
Accommodating thirty horses, they were at present occupied by
twenty-one, including the pony of little Ann. For height, perfection of
lighting, gloss, shine, and purity of atmosphere they were unequalled in
the county. It seemed indeed impossible that any horse could ever so far
forget himself in such a place as to remember that he was a horse. Every
morning a little bin of carrots, apples, and lumps of sugar, was set
close to the main entrance, ready for those who might desire to feed the
dear inhabitants.
Reined up to a brass ring on either side of their stalls with their
noses towards the doors, they were always on view from nine to ten, and
would stand with their necks arched, ears pricked, and coats gleaming,
wondering about things, soothed by the faint hissing of the still busy
grooms, and ready to move their noses up and down the moment they saw
someone enter.
In a large loose-box at the end of the north wing Barbara's favourite
chestnut hunter, all but one saving sixteenth of whom had been entered
in the stud book, having heard her footstep, was standing quite still
with his neck turned. He had been crumping up an apple placed amongst
his feed, and his senses struggled between the lingering flavour of
that delicacy,--and the perception of a sound with which he connected
carrots.
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