scue
him;--invited him into her territory, the stable; resisted all attempts
to turn him out; reinstated him there, in spite of maid and boy, and
mistress and master; wore out everybody's opposition, by the activity of
her protection, and the pertinacity of her self-will; made him sharer
of her bed and of her mess; and, finally, established him as one of the
family as firmly as herself.

Dash--for he has even won himself a name amongst us, before he was
anonymous--Dash is a sort of a kind of a spaniel; at least there is in
his mongrel composition some sign of that beautiful race. Besides his
ugliness, which is of the worst sort--that is to say, the shabbiest--he
has a limp on one leg that gives a peculiar one-sided awkwardness to his
gait; but independently of his great merit in being May's pet, he has
other merits which serve to account for that phenomenon--being, beyond
all comparison, the most faithful, attached, and affectionate animal
that I have ever known; and that is saying much. He seems to think it
necessary to atone for his ugliness by extra good conduct, and does so
dance on his lame leg, and so wag his scrubby tail, that it does any one
who has a taste for happiness good to look at him--so that he may now be
said to stand on his own footing. We are all rather ashamed of him when
strangers come in the way, and think it necessary to explain that he
is May's pet; but amongst ourselves, and those who are used to his
appearance, he has reached the point of favouritism in his own person.
I have, in common with wiser women, the feminine weakness of loving
whatever loves me--and, therefore, I like Dash. His master has found out
that he is a capital finder, and in spite of his lameness will hunt a
field or beat a cover with any spaniel in England--and, therefore, HE
likes Dash. The boy has fought a battle, in defence of his beauty,
with another boy, bigger than himself, and beat his opponent most
handsomely--and, therefore, HE likes Dash; and the maids like him, or
pretend to like him, because we do--as is the fashion of that pliant
and imitative class. And now Dash and May follow us everywhere, and are
going with us to the Shaw, as I said before--or rather to the cottage by
the Shaw, to bespeak milk and butter of our little dairy-woman, Hannah
Bint--a housewifely occupation, to which we owe some of our pleasantest
rambles.

And now we pass the sunny, dusty village street--who would have thought,
a month ago, that