“Oh yes,” said John.  “I wouldn’t be afraid to take him anywheres, only there isn’t any place to take him to.”  He then stepped quite close to the bear.  “Hey, horsey!” said he.  “Hey, old horsey!  Good old horsey!”

“Is that his name?” I asked.

“That’s what the Dago called him,” said John.  “Hey, horsey!  Good horsey!” And he stooped and unfastened the chain from the post.

I imagined that the Italian had called the bear “Orso,” perhaps with some diminutive, but I did not care to discuss this.  I was very much interested to see what the man was going to do.  With the end of the chain in his hand, John now stepped in front of the bear and said, “Come along, horsey!” and, to my surprise, the bear began to shamble after him as quietly as if he had been following his old master.  “See!” cried John.  “He’ll go anywheres I choose to take him!” and he began to lead him about the yard.

As he approached the kitchen there came a fearful scream from the open window.

“Take him away!  Take him away!” I heard, in the shrillest accents.

“They’re dreadfully skeered,” said John, as he led the bear back; “but he wouldn’t hurt nobody!  It would be a good thing, though, to put his muzzle on; that’s it hangin’ over there by the shed; it’s like a halter, and straps up his jaws.  The Dago said there ain’t no need for it, but he puts it on when he’s travellin’ along the road to keep people from bein’ skeered.”

“It would be well to put it on,” said I.  “I wonder if we can get him into it?”

“I guess he’d let you do anything you’d a mind to,” replied John, as he again fastened the chain to the post.

I took down the muzzle and approached the bear.  He did not growl, but stood perfectly still and looked at me.  I put the muzzle over his head, and, holding myself in readiness to elude a sudden snap, I strapped up his jaws.  The creature made no snap—­he gazed at me with mild resignation.

“As far as he goes,” said John, “he’s all right; but as far as everything else goes—­especially horses—­they’re all wrong.  He’s got to be got rid of some way.”

I had nothing more to say to John, and I went into the house.  I met Mrs. Chester in the hall.

“I have had a bad time up-stairs,” she said.  “Mrs. Whittaker declares that she will not stay an hour in a house where there is a bear without a master; but as she has a terrible sciatica and cannot travel, I do not know what she is going to do.  Her trained nurse, I believe, is now putting on her bonnet to depart.”

As she spoke, the joyful anticipation of a few days at the Holly Sprig Inn began to fade away.  I did not blame the bear as the present cause of my disappointment.  He had done all he could for me.  It was his wretched master who had done the mischief by running away and leaving him.  But no matter what had happened, I saw my duty plainly before me.  I had not been encouraged to stay, but it is possible that I might have done so without encouragement, but now I saw that I must go.  The Fates, who, as I had hoped, had compelled my stay, now compelled my departure.