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in a faithful dog? How kind we ought to be, and how considerate for the comfort of such a noble animal! And ever as they get older our thoughtfulness for their welfare and care of them ought to increase. Mind, too, that most good thinking men believe that dogs have a hereafter.
“I canna but believe,” says the Ettrick shepherd, in his broad Doric, “that dowgs hae souls.”
My friend, the Rev. J.G. Wood, in his book called “Man and Beast,” has proved beyond dispute that there is nothing in Scripture against the theory that the lower animals will have a hereafter.
And note how the goodly poet Tupper writes about his dear dog Sandy:
“Shall noble fidelity, courage and love,
Obedience and conscience – all rot in the ground?
No room be found for them beneath or above,
Nor anywhere in all the universe round?
Can Fatherhood cease? or the Judge be unjust?
Or changefulness mark any counsel of God?
Shall a butterfly’s beauty be lost in the dust?
Or the skill of a spider be crushed as a clod?
“I cannot believe it: Creation still lives;
The Maker of all things made nothing in vain:
The Spirit His gracious ubiquity gives,
Though seeming to die, ever lives on again.
We ‘rise with our bodies,’ and reason may hope
That truth, highest truth, may sink humbly to this,
That ‘Lo, the poor Indian’ was wiser than Pope
When he longed for his dog to be with him in bliss!”
Book One – Chapter Seven.
Leaving Home
From what I have already told the reader about Harry Milvaine, it will readily be gathered that he was a lad of decided character and of some considerable determination. A boy, too, who was apt to take action at the first touch of the spur of a thought or an idea.
What I have now to relate will, I think, prove this still further.
He left his uncle – a younger brother of his mother – and his father one evening talking in the dining-room. He had bidden them good-night and glided away upstairs to bed. He was partially undressed before he noticed that he had left a favourite book down in the library.
So he stole silently down to fetch it.
He had to pass the dining-room door, and in doing so the mention of his own name caused him to pause and listen.
Listeners, they say, seldom hear any good about themselves. Perhaps not, but the following is what Harry heard:
“Ha!” laughed Uncle Robert, “I tell you, brother, I’d do it. That would take the fun out of him. That would knock all notions of a sailor’s life out of the lad. It has been done before, and most successfully too, I can tell you.”
“And,” replied Harry’s father, “you would really advise me to – ”
“I would really advise you to do as I say,” said uncle, interrupting his brother-in-law. “I’d send him to sea for a voyage in a whaler. They sail in February, and they return in May – barely three months, you see.”
“Indeed, then I do think I’ll take your advice. But his mother loves the dear, brave boy so, that I’m sure she’ll feel the parting very much.”
“Well, well, my sister’ll soon get over that.”
Harry stayed to hear no more. He went back to his room without the book, and, instead of going to bed, lay down upon his sofa with the intention of what he called “doing a good think.”
For fully an hour he lies there with his round eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Then he starts up.
“Yes,” he cries, half aloud, “I’ll do it, I’ll do it. My father will see whether I have any courage or not.”
He goes straight to the little money-box kennel that stood on the mantelpiece.
The canary and pigeon business had been profitable with Harry for some time past.
He was very wealthy indeed. More so even than he imagined, for now when he counted his horde it ran up to 4 pounds, 15 shillings, 6 pence.
“Splendid!” said Harry to himself; “I couldn’t have believed I was so rich.”
Then he knelt down and said his prayers, far more fervently than he was wont to do. Especially did he pray for blessings to fall on his dear mother and father.
“I don’t think it is quite right,” he said to himself, “what I am going to do, but it will be all right again in a few months.”
He lay down in bed and slept soundly for hours. But the stars were still shining thickly when he awoke and looked out of the window.
There was snow on the ground, hard, crisp snow.
Harry lit his candle, then he got out his small writing-case, and, after some time and considerable pains, succeeded in writing a letter, which he carefully folded and addressed.
Young though he was – with his tiny fowling-piece – a gift from one of his uncles – the boy could tumble either rabbit or hare, or bring down a bird on the wing, but he was not particularly clever with the pen. I wish I could say that he was.
He now got a small bag out of the cupboard, and into this he put a change of clothes. Having washed and dressed, he was ready for the road.
He opened his door quietly, and walked silently along the passage, boots in hand. He had to pass his mother’s room door. His heart beat high, it thumped against his ribs so that he could almost hear it. How he would have liked to have gone in, and kissed his dear mother good-bye! But he dared not.
Not until he was quite out of doors among the snow did he put on his boots. Eily, not knowing him, made a rush, barking and fiercely growling.
“Hush, Eily! hush!” he cried; “it’s me, it’s Harry, your master.”
Eily changed her tune now, and also her attitude. The hair that had been standing up all along her back was smoothed down at once, and as the boy bent to tie his boots she licked his hands and cheek. The poor dog seemed really to know that something more than usual was in the wind.
There was a glimmer of light in the east, but the stars everywhere else were still very bright.
Harry stood up.
Eily sat motionless, looking eagerly up into his face, and her eyes sparkled in the starlight.
She was waiting for her master’s invitation to go along with him. One word would have been enough to have sent her wild with joy.
“Where can he be going?” she was asking herself. “Not surely to the forest at this time of night! But wherever he goes, I’ll go too.”
“Eily,” said the boy, seriously, even sadly, “I’m going away, far, far away.”
The dog listened, never moving ear nor tail.
“And, Eily, you cannot come with me, dear, dear doggie.”
Eily threw herself at his feet, or rather fell; she looked lost in grief.
He patted her kindly.
This only made matters worse. She thought he was relenting, that his words had been only spoken in fun. She jumped up, sprang on his shoulder, licked his ear, then went gambolling round and round him, and so made her way to the gate.
It was very apparent, however, that all these antics were assumed, there was no joy at the dog’s heart. She was but trying to overcome her master’s scruples to take her along with him.
Harry followed