g."

"Rorie knows he's always welcome. Have some more of that mulligatawny,
my lad, it's uncommonly good."

Rorie declined the mulligatawny, being at this moment deeply engaged in
watching Vixen and the dogs. Nip, the liver-coloured pointer, was
performing his celebrated statue feat. With his forelegs stiffly
extended, and his head proudly poised, he simulated a dog of marble;
and if it had not been for the occasional bumping of his tail upon the
Persian carpet, in an irresistible wag of self-approbation, the
simulation would have been perfect.

"Look, papa! isn't it beautiful? I went out of the room the other day,
while Nip was doing the statue, after I'd told him not to move a paw,
and I stayed away quite five minutes, and then stole quietly back; and
there he was, lying as still as if he'd been carved out of stone.
Wasn't that fidelity?"

"Nonsense!" cried the Squire. "How do you know that Nip didn't wind you
as you opened the door, and get himself into position? What are these?"
as the old silver _entree_ dishes came round. "Stewed eels? You never
forget my tastes, Pamela."

"Stewed eels, sir; _sole maitre d'hotel_," said the butler, in the
usual suppressed and deferential tone.

Rorie helped himself automatically, and went on looking at Vixen.

Her praises of Nip had kindled jealous fires in the breast of Argus,
her own particular favourite; and the blunt black muzzle had been
thrust vehemently under her velvet sleeve.

"Argus is angry." said Rorie.

"He's a dear old foolish thing to be jealous," answered Vixen, "when he
knows I'd go through fire and water for him."

"Or even fight a big boy," cried the Squire, throwing himself back in
his chair with the unctuous laughter of a man who is dining well, and
knows it.

Vixen blushed rosiest red at the allusion.

"Papa, you oughtn't to say such things," she cried; "I was a little bit
of a child then."

"Yes, and flew at a great boy of fourteen and licked him," exclaimed
the Squire, rapturously. "You know the story, don't you, Rorie?"

Rorie had heard it twenty times, but looked the picture of ignorant
expectancy.

"You know how Vixen came by Argus? What, you don't? Well, I'll tell
you. This little yellow-haired lass of mine was barely nine years old,
and she was riding through the village on her pony, with young Stubbs
behind her on the sorrel mare--and, you know, to her dying day, that
sorrel would never let anyone dismount her quietly. Now what do