"Ow'r Pincher ha' chawed up yon lump o' white wool."

"Killed Mrs. Gilbert's little poodle?"

"Ah, as dead as a door nail."

"I am sorry for it, very sorry. She will make an awful fuss about it, Polly. Did you see Pincher do it?"

"No, but Martha says a' did it. She oughter to know. See, she be coming in, crying an' roaring as if it wor a dead child."

Martha ran into the kitchen carrying the dead dog in her arms, screaming and shouting in a state of great excitement.

"Oh the precious Jewel? the darling pet! What will my mistress say? How shall I tell her? Oh, oh, oh."

Hearing from the next room the outcries of her servant, Mrs. Gilbert hurried in and demanded what all the noise was about.

"Oh, ma'am, just look here at your beautiful dog," sobbed Martha, holding up the little creature, from whose throat the blood was dripping all over the floor.

"Who has dared to ill use my dog?" cried Sophy Rushmere, not yet aware he was dead, and she turned and glared at Polly with the ferocity of a tigress.

"Oh, he is dead!" screamed Martha, "stone dead."

"Who killed him?"

"The horrid brute Pincher."

"Call Mr. Gilbert to shoot the monster."

"A' can't do it, ma'am," said Polly, very innocently. "A' ha' got but one arm."

"Hold your tongue you impudent jade. I have no doubt you set the other dog to worry him." Mrs. Gilbert took the dead dog in her arms and cried aloud.

Dorothy went up to her, and very kindly offered to examine the little animal, and ascertain whether he was really dead.

"Don't touch him!" screamed Sophy, pushing her rudely away. "I dare say you are glad of his death, and know more about it than you choose to say."

Dorothy drew back with an air of disgust. "I can excuse your grief and annoyance at the death of the poor dog, who was a pretty harmless little creature, but not your insulting those who never injured him.

Perhaps if it were a fellow-creature, you would not feel the least distress about it."

"Martha," said Mrs. Gilbert, paying no heed to her, "go and call your master. I will be revenged on that ferocious beast. If he refuses to kill him, I will kill him myself."

Dorothy became suddenly aware of the danger that threatened her old favourite.

"Good heavens!" she thought, "this cruel woman will never execute her threat. Gilbert will not suffer her to destroy the good old dog."

"Mrs. Gilbert," she said in a voice of entreaty, "I hope you do not mean to hurt the dog. It is the nature of these animals to quarrel and fight with each other. The death of Pincher would do you no good, while it would greatly distress Mrs. Rushmere, who loves the dog."

"Oh, I suppose you care nothing about him, when I see you feeding and caressing him every day. You have no regard for my feelings. There was nothing in the world I loved so well as my dog."

"Not even your husband, Sophy?" said Gilbert, who just then came in.

"Now don't expect me to be very sorry for the death of my rival. When Martha came running to me in the field, I thought something terrible had happened."

"Could anything be worse?" sobbed his wife, kissing the head of her dead favourite. "If you have any regard for me, Gilbert, you will just go out and kill the hateful wretch that murdered him."

"Kill Pincher! I would lose my other arm first."

"G.o.d bless you, Gilbert!" cried Dorothy, with her eyes full of tears. "I felt certain you would never kill such an old friend."

That speech, meant for his good, decided the fate of poor Pincher. A sinister smile pa.s.sed over Mrs. Gilbert's pale face. She dropped the body of Jewel upon the floor, and left the room.

After she was gone, Gilbert took up the animal and carefully examined the wound.

"Pincher never did this. The dog has been stabbed with a knife. The jugular vein is completely severed. I never cared much for the creature, who gave more trouble than a child, but it was a dastardly thing to do."

"I saw Pincher do it," said Martha, sulkily.

"You saw no such thing," retorted her master. "It is a base lie. It is more likely you did it yourself."

Martha gave way to a fresh burst of hysterical crying and ran upstairs to her mistress. Gilbert called Polly to fetch a spade and bury the dead dog in the garden.

"Martha," said Mrs. Gilbert, as that worthy came into her chamber, "shut the door and come here to me. I will give you half a crown if you will hang the dog Pincher."

"La, ma'am, keep your money. It's Dorothy Chance's dog, and I'll hang him to spite her. She's fonder of that ugly cur, than ever you were of Jewel. It will vex her dreadfully if anything happens amiss to him."

"So much the better," cried the amiable Sophia. "I shall then be revenged on them both."

So Pincher was hung without judge or jury, as innocent of the crime for which he paid the penalty, as many a poor creature condemned upon circ.u.mstantial evidence had been before him.

Dorothy was the first to discover her old favourite, dangling from the low branch of an apple tree in the orchard. A cry of anguish and surprise brought Mr. Rushmere and Gilbert to the spot.

"Dolly, girl! What's the matter?" cried the yeoman, "your face is as white as a sheet!"

Dorothy answered by pointing to the dog, and walked away to hide her tears.

Gilbert, hardly less distressed than herself, guessed the truth in a moment. His father, flew into a frenzy of pa.s.sion, and threatened to inflict all sorts of punishment on the dastardly rascals who had killed his faithful brave old dog.

"A man would never have done it," muttered Gilbert. "This is the work of a jealous woman."

And he felt the deepest abhorrence for the author of the outrage.

CHAPTER IV.

DEATH IN ANOTHER SHAPE.

In the afternoon Mrs. Martin walked up to the farm to see Mrs. Rushmere and Dorothy, and to call upon their new friends. Dorothy had not been to the parsonage for three weeks, and her place at church and in the Sunday school had been vacant. Mr. Martin and his wife suspected that all was not right with Dorothy; that either her mother was worse, or that she was so fatigued with overwork that she was unable to attend to these important duties; both were convinced that Dorothy would never desert her post unless compelled to do so. Mrs. Martin had been confined to the house by the dangerous illness of little Johnnie, whom the doctor had only p.r.o.nounced that day out of danger. Anxious as she was to learn in what manner Dorothy had borne the meeting with her lover, and whether his wife and mother were agreeable people, she had not been able to leave the sick-bed of her child to satisfy her natural curiosity. When Dorothy opened the door, she was startled by her pale face and altered appearance.