l was discovered to be so
terribly injured that she had to be shot. It was noticed that the bull's
horns were crimson with blood, so there could be no doubt who was the
delinquent.

"'The more you know of a bull, the less faith you can put in one,' said
our old cowherd to me one day when I recounted to him in Yorkshire my
escape; 'and, saving your ladyship's presence,' he added, 'bulls are as
given to tantrums as young females.'

[Sidenote: George's Tricks]

"When George was young we tried to teach him some tricks," continued
Lady Constance, "but, like a village boy, he 'was hard to learn;' and
the only accomplishment he ever acquired was, during meals, to stand up
and plant his front paws upon our shoulders, look over into our plates,
and receive as a reward some tit-bit. Sometimes he would do this without
any warning, and he seemed to derive a malicious pleasure in performing
these antics upon the shoulders of some nervous lady, or upon some guest
who did not share with us our canine love."

* * * * *

It had now come to my turn to contribute a story, and in answer to the
children's appeal I told them that I would tell them all that I could
remember of my old favourite mastiff, "Rory Bean," so-called after the
Laird of Dumbiedike's pony in the "Heart of Midlothian."

"Rory was a very large fawn mastiff, with the orthodox black mask. I
remember my little girl, when she was younger, having once been told
that she must not go downstairs to her godmamma with a dirty face,
resolved that if this was the case Rory must have a clean face too.

"So the next day, on entering the nursery, I found she had got some soap
and water in a basin, and beside her I saw the great kindly beast,
sitting up on her haunches, patiently waiting whilst her face was being
washed; but in spite of all the child's efforts the nose remained as
black as ever. My little girl's verdict, 'that mastiffs is the best
nursery dogs,' was for a long time a joke amongst our friends.

"For several years we took Rory up to London, but her stay there was
always rather a sad one, for when out walking the crossings in the
streets were a great source of terror to her. No maiden-aunt could have
been more timid. She would never go over by herself, but would either
bound forward violently or else hang back, and nearly pull over her
guide. She had also a spinsterly objection to hansoms, and never would
consent to be driven in one.