ONLY A DOG.
"It is only a dog!" the passengers on the steamer exclaimed, some with a
sigh of relief, for at first it was rumoured it was a child.
"Only a dog!" and Canon Percival said that to stop the steamer and lower
a boat was out of the question. They were much behind as it was, and
there would be barely time to catch the train to Paris.
There was no sign of Nino, and the surging waters had closed over him.
Poor Nino! Two or three fishing smacks were in sight, and almost within
speaking distance, but there was no hope of saving him.
"Only a dog!" but the heart of his little mistress felt as if it would
break. She rushed down into the cabin, and with a wild cry of distress
threw herself into her mother's arms.
"Nino! my Nino is drowned. Oh, Nino! Nino!"
Poor Ingleby roused herself from her sickness to comfort her darling.
"Oh! Miss Dorothy, perhaps it is all for the best; he would have been
unhappy, and in the way, and----"
But Dorothy refused comfort; and by the time they were in the train,
which there was a great rush to catch at Boulogne, Dorothy was exhausted
with crying, and was only too glad to be tucked up on a seat near her
mother, and soothed to sleep and forgetfulness of her trouble.
Irene felt very sorry for Dorothy, but she had never had a home and
pets, either dogs or cats; and she could not therefore enter into the
extent of Dorothy's grief. Having offered all the consolation in her
power, which had been repulsed, Irene resigned herself to a book that
Ingleby had given her out of her well-stocked basket, and before long
she, too, was asleep.
"Perhaps we can buy another white dog in Paris," Mrs. Acheson suggested
to Canon Percival.
"Oh no! that would not answer. I don't think you want any more trouble,
and if poor old Nino was troublesome sometimes, a young successor
would be certain to be ten times more troublesome. As a rule, dogs are
unwelcome visitors in other people's houses, and Lady Burnside may
dislike the race. I am sorry for Dorothy's trouble, and for the poor
little creature's end, but, as Ingleby says, there are worse sorrows
than the loss of a dog."
"I suppose he was drowned at once," Mrs. Acheson said; "I do hope he did
not struggle long for life."
"He was probably sucked under the steamer, and it would be over directly,
let us hope." Then Canon Percival pulled his travelling-cap over his
eyes, and was soon wrapped in profound slumber.
When the party arrived at Paris at Meurice's Hotel, Dorothy's tears
broke forth afresh, and she had to be conveyed to her room by poor
Ingleby, followed by Irene, who carried Miss Belinda and a number of
other miscellaneous articles.
Mrs. Acheson, tired and worn out, was forbidden by Canon Percival to
go to Dorothy, and again and again did Mrs. Acheson wish that she had
followed her brother's advice, and left poor Nino at home.
It was not till the two children were left together, after partaking of
crescent-shaped rolls and coffee, that Irene ventured to say anything to
Dorothy.
"Don't cry any more, Dorothy; it makes other people so unhappy--and,"
said Irene, wisely, "it won't bring Nino back!"
"I know that! I know that! What do you tell me _that_ for? Oh, dear! oh,
dear!"
"Well," Irene said, "I want to tell you anything which will make you try
to stop crying."
"_That_ won't," said Dorothy, crossly; "you never, _never_ had a dog;
how should _you_ know what I feel?"
"I am not thinking so much about what _you_ feel," Irene said, with
refreshing frankness; "I am thinking of your mamma, and how vexed and
grieved _she_ is about you."
At this moment a door from another room opened, and, rattling a big
bunch of keys, a pretty, bright _femme de chambre_ came in.
"Ah!" she said, in her broken English, "Ah! what pains little ma'm'selle?
Is she ill? Does she want a doctor?"
"No," Irene said; "her favourite little dog was drowned as we crossed
the sea. He fell over the edge of the steamer, and we never saw him
again."
"Ah! but that is sad; but oh! dear _petite_," the kind woman said, going
up to Dorothy, "think what grief my poor mother has, for my little
brother Antoine fell into the river when all the flowers were coming out
in May, and was dragged out cold and dead. Ah! but that was grief."
"How old was he?" Dorothy said.
"Five years old, ma'm'selle, and as lovely as an angel."
"What did your mother do?" Irene asked; "your poor mother!"
"She comforted my poor father, for it was when cutting the rushes with
him that Antoine fell into the water. She dried her eyes, and tried to
be cheerful for his, my father's, sake. The pain at her poor heart was
terrible, terrible, but she said to me, 'Jeanette, I must hide the pain
for the sake of the dear father. I only tell it to God.'"
Both the children listened to Jeanette's story with keen interest, and
Irene asked,--
"How is your poor mother now?"
"She is calm, she is quiet; she does her work for them all, and her
face has a look of peace. M. le Cure says it is the peace that comes of
bearing sorrow, as the Lord Jesus bore the cross, and that is the way
for us all; little and young, or old, it is the same. But I must go;
there is so much work, night and day, day and night. See, dear little
ma'm'selle"--and Jeanette foraged in the deep pocket of her white
apron--"here are some bon-bons, chocolate of the best; see, all shining
like silver."
She laid some round chocolate balls, covered with silver paper, in
Dorothy's hand, and said,--
"Try to sleep away your sorrow, ma'm'selle, and wake fresh and happy for
madame's sake."
"Every one tells me that," said Dorothy, "except mother. She does not
tell me I don't care for her; she does not tell me to be happy for her
sake. As if I could--could--forget my Nino!"
"No one thinks you can forget him," Irene said; "but if crying makes you
ill, and makes your mamma miserable, you should try to stop."
Dorothy began to taste the excellence of Jeanette's chocolate, and
offered some to Irene, saying,--
"That was a pretty story of Jeanette's about her poor little brother.
Didn't you think so, Irene?"
"Yes," Irene said, thoughtfully; "I hope God will comfort Antoine's poor
father."
"It's the _mother_ that cared the most--it was the mother who was so
miserable."
"Ah! but it was the father who let the little boy slip into the water;
it was a thousand times worse for him," Irene said.
[Illustration: Nino]