He moved as if to leave the room.

"Stay!" came a peremptory command. "I--I have forgiven you long ago, my son; only pride and self-will stood in the way. For her sake, Philip!"

And the old man stretched a trembling hand across the child.

[Sidenote: Some true dog-stories for all who love dogs.]

Dogs We Have Known

BY

LADY CATHERINE MILNES-GASKELL

Some years ago I was the guest of my friends Colonel and Mrs. Hamilton.

Besides myself, there was a large Christmas party of friends and children staying in the house. One evening in the drawing-room we all joined in the children's play.

"What would you say," interposed Mr. Hillary, one of the guests, and he addressed the children, "if we were all in turn to tell you stories of all the dogs we have known?"

A little buzz of applause met this proposal, and our hostess, being pressed to tell the first tale, began by saying, "Well, then, I will tell you how I found my little terrier 'Snap.'"

"One day, about two years ago, I was driving into Charleston, which, as you know, is about two miles off. A little distance from the park gates I noticed that my pony carriage was followed by a little white dog--or at least by a little dog that had once been white. It ran along through the black mud of the roads, but nothing seemed to discourage it. On it came, keeping up some ten yards behind my carriage.

"At first I thought we only happened both of us to be going in the same direction, and that it was merely hurrying home; but I was soon undeceived, for to my surprise the little dog followed me first into one shop and then into another.

"Finally I got out again and went into the last. On returning to the ponies I was astonished to find that the poor little wanderer had jumped into the carriage, and ensconced herself comfortably amongst the cushions."

"'The brute won't let me take it out,' said d.i.c.k, my diminutive groom; 'it growls if I only touch it, something terrible.'

"'Oh, leave it, then,' I replied, and Snap, as I afterwards christened her, drove back with me, sitting up proudly by my side.

"The next day I went out for a long ride. Without any encouragement on my part, the little terrier insisted upon following my horse. I think we must have gone over a distance of some twenty-four miles, through woods, over fields, and along the high-roads, but never once had I to call or whistle to bring her to my side. My little friend was always just behind me.

"'She be determined to earn herself a good home,' said our old coachman, when I returned in the afternoon and he saw the little dog still following faithfully behind me. I asked him to catch and feed her, but Snap would not trust herself to his care. She showed her teeth and growled furiously when he approached her.

"'More temper than dawg,' murmured our old retainer as he relinquished his pursuit of her. 'c.u.m, la.s.sie, I'll do thee no harm;' but the terrier was not to be caught by his blandishments, and I had to catch her myself and feed her. To me she came at once, looking at me with her earnest, wistful eyes, and placing complete trust in me immediately.

"One of my friends says, 'Snap is redeemed by her many vices.' What made her confidence in me from the very first most remarkable was her general dislike to all strangers. She hates nearly every one. 'Snap spakes to us all about place,' is said of her by our old gardener.

"Obviously, I am sorry to say, her former master must have been opposed to law and order, for of all human beings she most hates policemen!

[Sidenote: Only Just in Time!]

"She also entertains a strong dislike to ministers of all denominations.

Last year when a high dignitary of the Church came to call upon me, imagine my dismay when I saw during our interview Snap, with evil designs, crawling under the furniture to nip his lordship's legs. I was only just in time to prevent the catastrophe!

"The 'nasty sneak,' as my nephew Harry called her when he heard the story, was almost able before I could stop her to fulfil her wicked intentions. Happily, his lordship was unconscious of her inhospitable purpose, and when I caught her up only said: 'Poor little dog! don't trouble, Mrs. Hamilton, I am not at all nervous about dogs.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: AT THE SHOW.]

"Another time I remember taking Snap to a meeting got up to further the interests of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

"All went well till a clergyman rose and addressed the meeting, when Snap jumped up also, barking ferociously, and tried to bite him. She was carried out struggling and yelping with rage.

"'Yon tyke can't do with a parson,' is the dictum of the villagers when they see her go by with me. Snap is very faithful, very crotchety, distrusting nearly everybody, greeting every fresh acquaintance with marked suspicion, and going through life with a most exalted and ridiculous notion of her own importance, and also of that of her master and mistress."

"Snap's dislike to the clergy reminds me," said Colonel Hamilton, "of a story I heard the other day from my friend Gordon, the artist: You must know that last year the county gave old Vaughan of Marshford Grange, for his services as M.F.H., a testimonial. 'Old V.,' as he is known, has the hereditary temper of all the Vaughans--in fact, might vie with 'Our Davey' of Indian fame. Gordon, as you know, was selected by the Hunt Committee to paint the picture, and he went to stay at the Grange.

"The day after his arrival he went down to breakfast, but found n.o.body there but the old squire seated at his table, and by him a favourite large lean white bull terrier.

"'Bob,' he declared, looked at him out of the corner of his evil eye, and therefore it was with some trepidation that he approached the table.

"'Swear, man, swear, or say something that he'll take for swearing,'

exclaimed his host. 'If Bob takes you for a parson he'll bite you.' The explanation of this supposed hostility on Bob's part to the clergy consisted in the known and open warfare that existed between Vaughan and his parson.

"Some forty years before, the Squire had given his best living to his best college friend, and ever since there had been internecine war as a consequence.

"Poor Gordon was that curious anomaly, an artist combined with the pink of spinsterly propriety; and he could see no humour in the incident, but always declared that he felt nervous during his visit at the Grange lest Bob's punishing jaws should mistake his antecedents and profession.

"But now, Lady Constance, it is your turn, as the children say."

"I have a very clever old dog at home," said Lady Constance, turning to the children, "called 'Sloe.' She was, in her youth and prime, a most valuable retriever, but now is grown too old to do much but sleep in the sunshine. Eddie and Molly were given some time ago two pretty young white rabbits. They looked like b.a.l.l.s of white fluff, and were the prettiest toy-like pets you can imagine. One night, unfortunately, they escaped from their protecting hutch.

"Sloe is one of those dogs that cannot resist temptation, and although she has often been whipped and scolded for ma.s.sacring rabbits, never listens to the voice of conscience. In fact, she hardly seems as if she could help doing so, and appears to think, like the naughty boy of the story, that, in spite of the beating, the fun was too great to forgo.

[Sidenote: Sloe and d.u.c.h.ess]

"Sloe is always loose, but has a kennel to sleep in at nights in the stable-yard. Opposite to her kennel is chained another dog--a retriever--'d.u.c.h.ess' by name, a lovely dog of a soft flaxen colour. This dog on this occasion, it so happened, had not yet been unchained.

"Sloe disappeared amongst the shrubberies, and found there her innocent victims. The poor little things were soon caught, and breathed their last in her ferocious jaws. When Sloe had killed them she did not care to eat them, and, strange to say, she determined not to bury them, but resolved that it should appear that the murder had been committed by her companion, and that d.u.c.h.ess should bear the blame.

"It is said that she is jealous of her companion sharing the favour of her master, and so decided upon doing her a bad turn.

"Prompted probably by this evil thought, she carried her victims one after the other into d.u.c.h.ess's kennel and left them there. The coachman, who was up betimes cleaning his harness, saw her do this. After which the old sly-boots retired to her own lair and went to sleep as if nothing had happened."

"Did you ever owe your life to a dog?" inquired Colonel Hamilton, turning to Lady Constance.

"Oh, yes, I did once," was her reply.

"Some years ago I was given a large dog--half bloodhound and half mastiff. To women and children he was very gentle, but he had an inveterate dislike to all men. There was nothing he would not allow a baby to do to him. It might claw his eyes, sit on his back, tap his nose, scream in his ears, and pull his hair; and 'George,' for such was his name, would sit and look at me with a sort of broad good-natured smile.