It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange wireless by which such people collect the news of the country-side.
“Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson’s dog,” said she one evening.
I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my attention.
“What of Mr. McPherson’s dog?”
“Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master.”
“Who told you this?”
“Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has eaten nothing for a week. Then today two of the young gentlemen from The Gables found it dead—down on the beach, sir, at the very place where its master met his end.”
“At the very place.” The words stood out clear in my memory. Some dim perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog should die was after the beautiful, faithful na
