k dismayed under the cart--his ears down, and as
much as he had of tail down, too.

What a man this must be--thought I--to whom my tremendous hero turns
tail! The carrier saw the muzzle hanging, cut and useless, from
his neck, and I eagerly told him the story, which Bob and I always
thought, and still think, Homer, or King David, or Sir Walter alone
were worthy to rehearse. The severe little man was mitigated, and
condescended to say, "Rab, ma man--puir Rabbie," whereupon the stump
of a tail rose up, the ears were cocked, the eyes filled and were
comforted; the two friends were reconciled. "Hupp!" and a stroke of
the whip were given to Jess, and off went the three.

Bob and I buried the Game Chicken that night (we had not much of a
tea) in the back-green of his house, in Melville Street, No. 17, with
considerable gravity and silence; and being at the time in the Iliad,
and, like all boys, Trojans, we of course called him Hector.

Six years have passed--a long time for a boy and a dog; Bob Ainslie
is off to the wars; I am a medical student, and clerk at Minto House
Hospital.

Rab I saw almost every week, on the Wednesday, and we had much
pleasant intimacy. I found the way to his heart by frequent scratching
of his huge head and an occasional bone. When I did not notice him he
would plant himself straight before me and stand wagging that bud of
a tail, and looking up, with his head a little to the one side. His
master I occasionally saw; he used to call me "Maister John," but was
laconic as any Spartan.

One fine October afternoon I was leaving the hospital, when I saw the
large gate open, and in walked Rab, with that great and easy saunter
of his. He looked as if taking possession of the place, like the Duke
of Wellington entering a subdued city, satiated with victory and
peace. After him came Jess, now white from age, with her cart; and
in it a woman carefully wrapped up--the carrier leading the horse
anxiously and looking back. When he saw me, James (for his name was
James Noble) made a curt and grotesque "boo," and said, "Maister John,
this is the mistress; she's got a trouble in her breest--some kind o'
an income, we're thinkin'."

By this time I saw the woman's face; she was sitting on a sack filled
with straw, with her husband's plaid round her, and his big-coat, with
its large, white metal buttons, over her feet.

I never saw a more unforgettable face--pale, serious, _lonely_,
delicate, sweet, without bei