e
seconds, perhaps; but in it shone more than she could remember, and more
than she could ever forget--a life's devotion compressed into one last
leap of the flame, to expire only with life itself. As her hands went
swiftly down to him, his tongue strove to lick them; but his head fell
back, and his spirit went out into whatever darkness the spirits of dead
dogs possess.

You know now why Tilda is not riding this morning, why she carries a
spade on her shoulder, and why her face on this sunny morning wears a
pensive shadow as she gazes back through the orchard trees. But 'Dolph,
the circus mongrel, sleeps among hounds of nobler breed, and shall have
a stone as honourable as any.

Now, if you were to look more closely, you might perceive a small stain
of green on the front of the homespun skirt otherwise so trim, and might
jump to the erroneous conclusion that before leaving the enclosure she
had knelt to say a prayer over the snapping of this last tie with her
old disreputable life. It is not precisely Christian, perhaps, to pray
over a dog's grave; but I am pretty sure that Parson Chichester, who has
made some tentative openings towards preparing Tilda for Confirmation,
would overlook the irregularity, and even welcome it as a foreshadowing
of grace. But Parson Chichester is a discerning man, as well as an
honest; and for some reason, although Tilda has long passed the normal
age to be prepared for that rite, he has forborne to press her as yet
even to be baptised. It will all come in time, he hopes; but he has a
queer soul to deal with.

--A queer soul, and (as he perceives) a self-respecting one. If she
come to it, she will come in her own time. So let it be confessed, as a
secret she would be extremely annoyed to hear revealed, that she did
indeed kneel five minutes since, but with no thought of religion; to try
rather, over 'Dolph's grave, if she could bend her body back in the old
acrobatic trick.

She could not, of course. She had known that she could not even as--
with a glance around her to make sure she was unobserved--she had made
the effort. Time had taken away the old Tilda with the old 'Dolph.
She was a girl grown, a girl with limbs firmed by outdoor sports and
country living. And she had learnt much--so much, that to have learnt
it she had necessarily forgotten much. You or I, meeting her this
morning for the first time, had made no doubt of her being a young lady
of rather exceptional br