_Vailima_, _Samoa_, _September_ 9, 1894.
DEAR MISS MIDDLETON,—Your letter has been like the drawing up of a
curtain. Of course I remember you very well, and the Skye terrier to
which you refer—a heavy, dull, fatted, graceless creature he grew up to
be—was my own particular pet. It may amuse you, perhaps, as much as ‘The
Inn’ amused me, if I tell you what made this dog particularly mine. My
father was the natural god of all the dogs in our house, and poor Jura
took to him of course. Jura was stolen, and kept in prison somewhere for
more than a week, as I remember. When he came back Smeoroch had come and
taken my father’s heart from him. He took his stand like a man, and
positively never spoke to my father again from that day until the day of
his death. It was the only sign of character he ever showed. I took him
up to my room and to be my dog in consequence, partly because I was sorry
for him, and partly because I admired his dignity in misfortune.
With best regards and thanks for having reminded me of so many pleasant
days, old acquaintances, dead friends, and—what is perhaps as pathetic as
any of them—dead dogs, I remain, yours truly,