you like?"
"No; I haven't."
"What a pity! I wonder if you like mine--or perhaps you would like
father's. It does seem a shame you shouldn't have somebody."
"I do very well without."
"Oh no, I'm sure you don't," replied Sophy with deep concern. "You may
do somehow, but you can't do well."
"What's your father like?" asked Mr. Waldron, amused in spite of
himself.
"My father's like a song," returned Sophy, as though she had given the
subject much reflection.
"A song! How's that?"
"Sometimes he is gay--full of jokes and laughter, sometimes he is sad,
and I cry softly to myself in bed; but he is always beautiful, you
know--like a song."
"And your mother?"
[Sidenote: "It is Lonely Sometimes"]
"I haven't got a mother," replied Sophy sadly. "That's where I'm only
half like other little girls. My mother was frightened, and so was the
little brother who was coming to play with me. They were both
frightened, and so they ran away back again to God. I wish they had
stayed--it is lonely sometimes."
"But you have your father."
"Yes, only father is away all day, and I sit such a lot at our window."
"But you have no pain, have you?" Mr. Waldron questioned with interest.
"No," answered Sophy, sighing faintly. "Only a pain in my little mind."
"Ah! my pain is in my toe, and I expect hurts a deal more than yours.
What's your father about that he leaves you alone and doesn't have you
seen to, eh?"
Sophy's face blazed. "How dare you speak in that voice of my father!"
she cried. "He is the kindest and best, and works for me until he is
quite thin and pale. Do you work for anybody? I don't think you do," she
added scornfully, "you look too fat!"
"You haven't much respect for grey hairs, young lady."
"Grey hairs, why?" asked Sophy, still ruffled.
Mr. Waldron took refuge in platitudes.
"I have always been taught that the young should respect age, of which
grey hair is an emblem."
"How funny!" said Sophy, leaning forward to look more closely at her
companion. "To think of so much meaning in those tufts behind your ears!
I always thought what was inside mattered--not the outside. How much
silly people must long to have grey hairs, that they may be respected. I
must ask father if that is true."
"I suppose you respect your father?" said Mr. Waldron severely.
"Oh, no," replied Sophy. "I only _love_ him. I think the feeling I have
for the gas man must be respect. Yes, I think it must be, there is
something so disagreeable about it."
"Why?"
"Well, you see, he so often comes when father is out and asks for money,
just as if money grew on our floor, then he looks at me and goes away
grumbling. I think it must be respect I feel when I see his back going
downstairs."
Mr. Waldron laughed. "You are a queer little girl!" he said.
"Yes, I suppose I am," answered Sophy resignedly. "Only I hope I'm not
unpleasant."
When Dr. Norman returned he found the child and his patient on the best
of terms. After placing Sophy in the carriage, he came back at Mr.
Waldron's request for a few words.
"That's a funny child," began the old man, glancing up at the doctor.
"She actually made me laugh! What are you going to do with her?"
"Take her home."
"Humph! I suppose I couldn't--couldn't----?"
"What?"
"Buy her?"
"Good gracious, Mr. Waldron! We are in the twentieth century!"
"Pity, isn't it! But there are many ways of buying without paying cash.
See what you can do. She amuses me. I'll come down handsomely for her."
"Well, you must let me think it over," replied the doctor in his most
serious manner, but he smiled as he shut the library door.
An evening shortly afterwards Dr. Norman again called on old Mr.
Waldron. He found his patient much better, and seated at his
writing-table, from which he glanced up quite briskly to inquire--
"Well, have you brought our queer little friend again?"
"Not this time, but I have come to know if you will help me."
"Got some interesting boy up your sleeve this time, have you?"
"No, only the same girl. I want to cure her lameness."
"Is that possible?"
"I believe quite possible, but it will mean an operation and probably a
slow recovery."
"You don't want me to operate, I suppose?"
The doctor smiled. "Only as friend and helper. I will do the deed
myself."
Old Mr. Waldron growled. "Flaunting your good deeds to draw this badger,
eh? Well, where do I come in?"
[Sidenote: Dr. Norman's Proposal]
"Let me bring the child here. Let her be cared for under your roof. Her
father is poor--he cannot afford nurses and the paraphernalia of a
sick-room."
"So I am to turn my house into a hospital for the sick brat of nobody
knows who--a likely tale! Why, I haven't even heard the father's name!"
"He is my friend, let that suffice."
"It doesn't suffice!" roared the old man, working himself into a rage.
"I call it pretty cool that you should come here and foist your charity
brats on me!"
Dr. Norman took up his hat.
"You requested me to see if the father would allow you to adopt the
child----"
"Adopt; did I say adopt?"
"No; you used a stronger term--'buy,' I think it was."
Old Mr. Waldron grunted. "I said nothing about nurses and carving up
legs."
"No, these are only incidents by the way. Well, good-evening." Dr.
Norman opened the door.
"Why are you in such haste?" demanded Mr. Waldron.
"I have people waiting for me," returned the doctor curtly. "I am only
wasting time here. Good-night."
He went outside, but ere his hand left the door a call from within
reached him.
"Come back, you old touch-flint!" cried Mr. Waldron. "You are trying to
force my hand--I know you! Well, I'll yield. Let that uncommonly queer
child come here; only remember I am to have no trouble, no annoyance.
Make your own arrangements--but don't bother me!"
So it came to pass that little Sophy Waldron was received into her
grandfather's house all unknowing that it was her grandfather's.
He saw her for a few moments on the day of her arrival.
"I hear you are going to be made strong and well," was the old man's
greeting.
"Yes," returned Sophy, with a wise look. "They are going to try and mend
me straight. I hope they won't make a mistake this time. Mistakes are so
vexatious."
"When you are well would you like to live with me? I want a little girl
about the house."
"What for? You have lots and lots of people to do things for you."
Mr. Waldron sighed. "I would like somebody to do things without being
paid for their work."
"Oh, I understand," replied Sophy. "Well, I'll see how my leg turns out,
and if father thinks you a nice old man--of course it will all depend on
father."
"Confound it! I forgot the father!"
"You mustn't say naughty words, Mr. Sir," remonstrated Sophy, shaking a
forefinger at him. "And you mustn't speak horrid of my father; I love
him."
[Sidenote: "Could you Love me?"]
Old Mr. Waldron regarded her wistfully. "Do you think you could love me,
Sophy?"
The child eyed him critically.
"I like you in bits," she replied. "But perhaps the good bits may
spread, then I should like you very much."
Just then the doctor came to take her to the room prepared, where a
pleasant-faced nurse was in waiting.
Some hours afterwards, when Dr. Norman's task was done, and poor little
Sophy lay white but peaceful on her bed, she looked up at the nurse,
saying with a whimsical smile--
"I should like to see the grumpy man."
"And so you shall, my dear," was the nurse's hasty assurance. "Whoever
can that be?" she muttered under her breath.
"Why, the grumpy man downstairs," reiterated Sophy.
"Would it be right?" questioned her father, who knelt by the bed,
holding a small hand clasped firmly in his own.
"I'll see what the doctor says," replied the nurse, retiring into the
adjoining room.
She speedily returned to say that Dr. Norman would go down himself to
bring up old Mr. Waldron.
Sophy turned a pale face contentedly to her father.
"Dear dadums," she whispered, "now you will see my friend. He is not
such a bad old man, though he does grunt sometimes."
For answer Philip Waldron bowed his head upon the hand he held, and
waited.
Soon steps and voices were heard outside.
"Is this the room? A terrible way up! Why didn't you put her a floor
lower? Quieter?--oh, well, have your own way!"
The doctor and Mr. Waldron entered. In the half-light of the room the
little figure on the bed was dimly visible. Both men paused while the
doctor laid a professional hand on the child's pulse.
"She is all right," he remarked reassuringly.
"So you wanted to see me," began Mr. Waldron, looking down at the small
head where it lay on the pillow. "How pale she is!" he ejaculated to
himself. "I hope they have treated her properly!"
"Quite properly, thank you," replied Sophy, answering his half-whisper.
"I wanted you to see my daddy."
Mr. Waldron noticed for the first time the bowed head on the other side
of the bed.
"Yes," continued Sophy, following his glance. "This is my daddy, and he
wants to help me say 'Thank you.' For Dr. Norman has told me how kind
you are, if you are sometimes grumpy."
Philip Waldron slowly raised his head and stood up, facing his father
across the bed.
"Philip!"
"Yes, sir."
"Is it possible?"
"I did not intend you should find me here," said Philip, his voice
hoarse with emotion, "but it was her wish to see you; and I--I can go
away."
He moved as if to leave the room.
"Stay!" came a peremptory command. "I--I have forgiven you long ago, my
son; only pride and self-will stood in the way. For her sake, Philip!"
And the old man stretched a trembling hand across the child.
[Sidenote: Some true dog-stories for all who love dogs.]
Dogs We Have Known
BY
LADY CATHERINE MILNES-GASKELL
Some years ago I was the guest of my friends Colonel and Mrs. Hamilton.
Besides myself, there was a large Christmas party of friends and
children staying in the house. One evening in the drawing-room we all
joined in the children's play.
"What would you say," interposed Mr. Hillary, one of the guests, and he
addressed the children, "if we were all in turn to tell you stories of
all the dogs we have known?"
A little buzz of applause met this proposal, and our hostess, being
pressed to tell the first tale, began by saying, "Well, then, I will
tell you how I found my little terrier 'Snap.'"
"One day, about two years ago, I was driving into Charleston, which, as
you know, is about two miles off. A little distance from the park gates
I noticed that my pony carriage was followed by a little white dog--or
at least by a little dog that had once been white. It ran along through
the black mud of the roads, but nothing seemed to discourage it. On it
came, keeping up some ten yards behind my carriage.
"At first I thought we only happened both of us to be going in the same
direction, and that it was merely hurrying home; but I was soon
undeceived, for to my surprise the little dog followed me first into one
shop and then into another.
"Finally I got out again and went into the last. On returning to the
ponies I was astonished to find that the poor little wanderer had jumped
into the carriage, and ensconced herself comfortably amongst the
cushions."
"'The brute won't let me take it out,' said Dick, my diminutive groom;
'it growls if I only touch it, something terrible.'
"'Oh, leave it, then,' I replied, and Snap, as I afterwards christened
her, drove back with me, sitting up proudly by my side.
"The next day I went out for a long ride. Without any encouragement on
my part, the little terrier insisted upon following my horse. I think we
must have gone over a distance of some twenty-four miles, through woods,
over fields, and along the high-roads, but never once had I to call or
whistle to bring her to my side. My little friend was always just behind
me.
"'She be determined to earn herself a good home,' said our old coachman,
when I returned in the afternoon and he saw the little dog still
following faithfully behind me. I asked him to catch and feed her, but
Snap would not trust herself to his care. She showed her teeth and
growled furiously when he approached her.
"'More temper than dawg,' murmured our old retainer as he relinquished
his pursuit of her. 'Cum, lassie, I'll do thee no harm;' but the terrier
was not to be caught by his blandishments, and I had to catch her myself
and feed her. To me she came at once, looking at me with her earnest,
wistful eyes, and placing complete trust in me immediately.
"One of my friends says, 'Snap is redeemed by her many vices.' What made
her confidence in me from the very first most remarkable was her general
dislike to all strangers. She hates nearly every one. 'Snap spakes to
us all about place,' is said of her by our old gardener.
"Obviously, I am sorry to say, her former master must have been opposed
to law and order, for of all human beings she most hates policemen!
[Sidenote: Only Just in Time!]
"She also entertains a strong dislike to ministers of all denominations.
Last year when a high dignitary of the Church came to call upon me,
imagine my dismay when I saw during our interview Snap, with evil
designs, crawling under the furniture to nip his lordship's legs. I was
only just in time to prevent the catastrophe!
"The 'nasty sneak,' as my nephew Harry called her when he heard the
story, was almost able before I could stop her to fulfil her wicked
intentions. Happily, his lordship was unconscious of her inhospitable
purpose, and when I caught her up only said: 'Poor little dog! don't
trouble, Mrs. Hamilton, I am not at all nervous about dogs.'
[Illustration: AT THE SHOW.]
"Another time I remember taking Snap to a meeting got up to further the
interests of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
"All went well till a clergyman rose and addressed the meeting, when
Snap jumped up also, barking ferociously, and tried to bite him. She was
carried out struggling and yelping with rage.
"'Yon tyke can't do with a parson,' is the dictum of the villagers when
they see her go by with me. Snap is very faithful, very crotchety,
distrusting nearly everybody, greeting every fresh acquaintance with
marked suspicion, and going through life with a most exalted and
ridiculous notion of her own importance, and also of that of her master
and mistress."
* * * * *
"Snap's dislike to the clergy reminds me," said Colonel Hamilton, "of a
story I heard the other day from my friend Gordon, the artist: You must
know that last year the county gave old Vaughan of Marshford Grange, for
his services as M.F.H., a testimonial. 'Old V.,' as he is known, has
the hereditary temper of all the Vaughans--in fact, might vie with 'Our
Davey' of Indian fame. Gordon, as you know, was selected by the Hunt
Committee to paint the picture, and he went to stay at the Grange.
"The day after his arrival he went down to breakfast, but found nobody
there but the old squire seated at his table, and by him a favourite
large lean white bull terrier.
"'Bob,' he declared, looked at him out of the corner of his evil eye,
and therefore it was with some trepidation that he approached the table.
"'Swear, man, swear, or say something that he'll take for swearing,'
exclaimed his host. 'If Bob takes you for a parson he'll bite you.' The
explanation of this supposed hostility on Bob's part to the clergy
consisted in the known and open warfare that existed between Vaughan and
his parson.
"Some forty years before, the Squire had given his best living to his
best college friend, and ever since there had been internecine war as a
consequence.
"Poor Gordon was that curious anomaly, an artist combined with the pink
of spinsterly propriety; and he could see no humour in the incident, but
always declared that he felt nervous during his visit at the Grange lest
Bob's punishing jaws should mistake his antecedents and profession.
"But now, Lady Constance, it is your turn, as the children say."
* * * * *
"I have a very clever old dog at home," said Lady Constance, turning to
the children, "called 'Sloe.' She was, in her youth and prime, a most
valuable retriever, but now is grown too old to do much but sleep in the
sunshine. Eddie and Molly were given some time ago two pretty young
white rabbits. They looked like balls of white fluff, and were the
prettiest toy-like pets you can imagine. One night, unfortunately, they
escaped from their protecting hutch.
"Sloe is one of those dogs that cannot resist temptation, and although
she has often been whipped and scolded for massacring rabbits, never
listens to the voice of conscience. In fact, she hardly seems as if she
could help doing so, and appears to think, like the naughty boy of the
story, that, in spite of the beating, the fun was too great to forgo.
[Sidenote: Sloe and Duchess]
"Sloe is always loose, but has a kennel to sleep in at nights in the
stable-yard. Opposite to her kennel is chained another dog--a
retriever--'Duchess' by name, a lovely dog of a soft flaxen colour. This
dog on this occasion, it so happened, had not yet been unchained.
"Sloe disappeared amongst the shrubberies, and found there her innocent
victims. The poor little things were soon caught, and breathed their
last in her ferocious jaws. When Sloe had killed them she did not care
to eat them, and, strange to say, she determined not to bury them, but
resolved that it should appear that the murder had been committed by her
companion, and that Duchess should bear the blame.
"It is said that she is jealous of her companion sharing the favour of
her master, and so decided upon doing her a bad turn.
"Prompted probably by this evil thought, she carried her victims one
after the other into Duchess's kennel and left them there. The coachman,
who was up betimes cleaning his harness, saw her do this. After which
the old sly-boots retired to her own lair and went to sleep as if
nothing had happened."
* * * * *
"Did you ever owe your life to a dog?" inquired Colonel Hamilton,
turning to Lady Constance.
"Oh, yes, I did once," was her reply.
"Some years ago I was given a large dog--half bloodhound and half
mastiff. To women and children he was very gentle, but he had an
inveterate dislike to all men. There was nothing he would not allow a
baby to do to him. It might claw his eyes, sit on his back, tap his
nose, scream in his ears, and pull his hair; and 'George,' for such was
his name, would sit and look at me with a sort of broad good-natured
smile.
"One year we all went up to a shooting-lodge in Perthshire. In the
paddock before the house there was a bull. I complained of our
neighbour, for I thought he had an evil eye, and might some day do the
children some mischief.
"Our landlord, however, would not listen to my complaints.
"'Dinna ye fash yersel,' Geordie,' he said to his herdsman, 'or take
notice of what the women-folk say. It is a douce baistie, and he'll nae
harm bairns nor doggies.'
"In spite of this, one afternoon I had occasion to cross the meadow,
when suddenly I turned round and saw the bull running behind me. He
bellowed fiercely as he advanced.
"Happily, when he charged I was able to spring aside, and so he passed
me. But I saw that the wall at the end of the field was several hundreds
yards off, and I felt, if the bull turned again to pursue me, my life
would not be worth much.
"Then I saw my faithful George standing sullenly beside me, all his
'hackles' up, and waiting for the enemy with an ominous growl.
"The bull again turned, but my dog met him, and something of the
inherited mastiff love of feats in the bull-ring must have awoke within
him, for when the bull came after me the old dog flew at his nose,
courageously worried him, and fairly ended by routing him. In the
meantime I slipped over the loose stone wall, and ran and opened the
gate at the bottom of the field, through which trotted a few minutes
later my protector.
"I told my story when I returned to the house, and the keeper promised
me that he would speak to the bailiff at our landlord's farm and have
the bull taken away on the following day.
"Now, the grass of the paddock being particularly tender and sweet, it
was the custom for the 'hill ponies' to graze at night in company with
the cows and the bull. The horses and cattle had hitherto done so,
without causing any damage to each other; but the morning after my
adventure one of the ponies was found gored to death, and an old
cart-mare who had been running there with a foal 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. On the other hand, she delighted in a drive
in a 'growler,' and, if the driver were cleaning out his carriage, would
often jump in and refuse to be taken out.
"When Rory followed us in London she had a foolish habit of wishing to
seem independent of all restraint, and of desiring to appear 'a
gentleman at large.'
"On one unfortunate occasion, whilst indulging in this propensity, she
was knocked over by a hansom--not badly hurt, but terribly overcome by a
sense of the wickedness of the world, where such things could be
possible.
"The accident happened in Dover Street. Rory had strayed into the gutter
after some tempting morsel she had espied there, and a dashing hansom
had bowled her over. She lay yelping and howling and pitying herself
intensely. My companion and I succeeded in dragging her into a baker's
shop, where she was shown every kindness and consideration, and then we
drove home in a four-wheeler. Rory was not much hurt, but for many days
could hardly be induced to walk in the streets again. She seemed to be
permeated with a sense of the instability and uncertainty of all things,
and never appeared able to recover from her surprise that she, 'Rory
Bean,' a mastiff of most ancient lineage and of the bluest blood, should
not be able to walk about in safety wherever she pleased--even in the
streets of the metropolis.
[Sidenote: Lost in London]
"I recollect we once lost her in London. She made her escape out of the
house whilst we had gone for a ride in the park. When we returned from
our ride, instead of hearing her joyous bark of welcome, and seeing her
flop down in her excitement the last four steps of the staircase, as was
her wont, we were met instead by the anxious face of the butler, who
told us Rory had run out and could not be found.