ith him when
he died.

I do not think I had noticed anything unusual about him beforehand. He
had not been very well for some months, but we thought little of it,
and he never dwelt upon it himself. I was in the fifth form at the
time, and almost grown up. Sweep was a middle-aged dog, the wisest and
handsomest of his race. The Rector always dined with us on Sunday, but
one evening he excused himself, saying he felt too unwell to come out,
and would prefer to stay quietly at home, especially as he had a
journey before him; for he was going the next day to visit his brother
in Yorkshire for a change. But he asked if my father would spare me to
come down and spend the evening with him instead. I rightly considered
Sweep as included in the invitation, and we went together.

As we went up the drive (so familiar to me and poor little Rubens!) I
thought I had never seen the Rector's garden in richer beauty, or
heard such a chorus from the birds he loved and protected. Indeed the
border plants were luxuriant almost to disorder. It struck me that Mr.
Andrewes had not been gardening for some time. Perhaps this idea led
me to notice how ill he looked when I went indoors. But dinner seemed
to revive him, and then in the warm summer sunset we strolled outside
again. The Rector leant heavily on my arm. He made some joke about my
height, I remember. (I was proud of having grown so tall, and
secretly thought well of my general appearance in the tail-coat of
"fifth form.") With one arm I supported Mr. Andrewes, the other hung
at my side, into the hand of which Sweep ever and anon thrust his nose
caressingly.

"How well the garden looks!" I said. "And your birds are giving you a
farewell concert."

"Ah! You think so too?" said the Rector, quickly.

I was puzzled. "You are going to-morrow, are you not?" I said.

"Yes, of course. I see," said the Rector laughing. "I was thinking of
a longer journey. How superstitions do cling to north-countrymen!
We've a terrible lot of Paganism in us yet, for all the Christians
that we are!"

"What was your superstition just now?" said I.

"Oh, just part of a belief in the occult sympathy of the animal world
with humanity, which, indeed, I am by no means prepared to give up."

"I should think not!" said I.

"Though doubtless the idea that they feel and presage impending death
to man must be counted a fable."

"Awful rot!" was my comment. "I say, sir, I'm sure you're not well, to
get such st