uch a thing,
I know." Mrs. Gerald was silent, and Tattine, expecting her to confirm
what she had said, grew a little suspicious. "Would Tadjie, Mamma?" with
a directness that would not admit of indirectness.

"Yes, Tattine; Tadjie would. She was trained to hunt before ever she was
given to Papa, and so were her ancestors before her. That is why
Doctor and Betsy, who have never been trained to hunt, go wild over the
rabbits. They have inherited the taste."

"Trained to hunt," said Tattine thoughtfully. "Do you mean that men just
went to work to teach them to be so cruel?"

"Well, I suppose in a way setters are natural hunters, Tattine, but then
their training has doubtless a great deal to do with it, but I want to
tell you something that I think will give you just a grain of comfort.
I read the other day that Sir John Franklin, the great Arctic explorer,
who almost lost his life in being attacked by some huge animal--it must
have been a bear, I think--says that the animal when he first gets you
in his teeth gives you such a shake that it paralyzes your nerves--this
is, it benumbs all your feelings, so, that, strange as it may seem,
you really do not suffer. So let us hope that it was that way with this
little rabbit."

"But there's a little blood here on one side, Mamma."

"That doesn't always prove suffering, either, Tattine. Soldiers are
sometimes wounded without ever knowing it until they see a little sign
of blood somewhere."

Tattine listened attentively to all this, and was in a measure
comforted. It seemed that Mamma was still able to better things, even
though not able to set everything perfectly right. "Now," Tattine
said,--with a little sigh of relief, "I think I will try and see what
I can do for Bunny. Perhaps he would first like a drink," so downstairs
she went, and putting some milk in a shallow tea-cup, she dipped Bunny's
nose in it, and it seemed to her as though he did take a little of it.
Then she trudged up to the garret for a box, and, putting a layer of
cotton-batting in the bottom, laid Bunny in one corner. Then she went to
the garden and pulled a leaf or two of the youngest, greenest lettuce,
and put it right within reach of Bunny's nose, and a little saucer of
water beside it. Then she went down to tell the gardener's little boy
all about the sorrowful thing that had happened.

The next morning Bunny was still breathing, but the lettuce was
un-nibbled; he had not moved an inch, and he was