e our doubled and
redoubled vigilance, the brothers had still two or three runs together
before the end of February brought with it the end of Laddie's life.

Beautiful being that he was, he had gladdened earth for five and a half
years. If it is hard to believe in immortality, it is harder to
understand how his Maker could cast away a spirit of such pure
sweetness as Laddie's. Perhaps he ranges the celestial meadows now and
has found out what King Lear wanted to know,--"the cause of thunder."
For thunder was Laddie's terror. He could be quieted only by the
Younger Sister, who, going to the piano, would play her loudest, while
the trembling collie crouched against her feet.

This second attack of pneumonia was relentless. Laddie was not allowed
to suffer it to the end, but was tenderly put to sleep. Shortly after,
Sigurd trotted over to The Orchard of his own impulse and, without any
of the customary lurking and looking for Laddie, went straight in to
the Sisters, licking their hands and pressing close against their
knees.

That afternoon a few of Laddie's closest friends--though all the town
loved Laddie--gathered about a little grave on The Orchard lawn, while
the delicate Elder Sister, wrapped in a white shawl, with Sigurd,
wearing a white ribbon, close beside her for comfort, looked down on
the scene from an open chamber window. In the group below, one of us
after another quietly spoke of Laddie's gentleness and gladness and
affection, of the happiness he had given and received. The Younger
Sister read a lyric good-bye that the Elder Sister had written and
thanked God, as simply as if He were standing in our midst, for all the
joy of Laddie. Then we lowered the box, dropping upon it the white
rosebuds that the Dryad had sent and the white carnations that Jack's
mistress had brought. When the earth went in, one voice said softly,
"Dust to dust," but another responded clearly, "Love to love." All the
while Sigurd's intent eyes and golden head peered from the window above
and once he gave a short, troubled bark.

SIGURD'S MEDITATIONS IN THE CHURCH-PORCH

The gaze of a dog is blind
To splendors of summit and sky,
Ocean and isle,
But never a painter shall find
The beautiful more than I
In my lady's smile.

The thought of a dog is dim.
Not even a wag he deigns
To the wisest book.
Philosophy dwells for him
In loving the law that reigns
In