and lay down, and when taken up by his mistress lay in her
arms almost insensible. It was long before he came to himself, and when
he did revive, it is quite impossible to describe his delight, or what
he did. He was, indeed, quite beside himself with joy, scouring about,
dragging his mistress here and there, doing all his tricks in a
confused manner, and, in short, behaving after a very insane fashion
indeed. We noticed he had a slight cough; but he seemed otherwise quite
well, and we thought it would go away; but it increased, and at that
time there was an epidemic of bronchitis among dogs. We sent him to an
eminent veterinary surgeon, who blistered him (and how patient the poor
fellow was under the pain cannot be told), but though relieved for the
time, the end was near. One morning he was seen to do an apparently
quite unaccountable thing. He took his son Terry (whom he was never
known to notice except by knocking him over and standing upon him,
growling fiercely), all round our village, and visited all the dogs in
it. John saw him doing this early in the morning, and told me of it. I
suppose he was commending Terry to their favour. He coughed a great deal
all day, and breathed heavily; but in the evening he was very bright,
and to all appearance much better, and insisted on doing all his tricks
till it was time to go to bed. Sprig never would go to bed willingly.
John used to come to the drawing-room door and call him, and he would go
to it, but stand growling till he was caught up and carried off. That
evening, as we remembered, he seemed more than ever unwilling to go, but
was caught up and carried away.

In the morning, about six o'clock--it was summer-time--I was just about
to get up, when John Lambert knocked at my door, and came in with Sprig
in his arms. He did not speak, and I asked him whether Sprig was worse.
"He's dead, sir," said he, with the tears rolling down his face, and
hardly able to speak. "Quite dead, sir; he must have died only a little
while ago, for when I went to let him out, I found him dead and quite
warm, as he is still." I am not ashamed to write that my eyes felt very
blind, but there was no hope; the dear little fellow was quite dead; he
had died calmly, and his eyes were bright; they had not glazed.

We buried him, John and myself, when he was quite cold and stiff, by a
rose-tree at the end of the garden. Poor John could hardly dig the
grave, and his tears fell fast and silently and u