t now exactly discoverable; but just at this
period of Murphy's life a decree was issued that several of the family
were to be boarded out; and the next day the young dog found himself
moved to the home of one of the mill-hands, half a mile and more away.

The cottage stood alone, and the family inhabiting it consisted of a man
and his wife, and a daughter just finishing her schooling. Once there had
been a son; but he, like many another in our villages, had gone out--all
honour to them!--to strike a blow for his country some five or six years
before, and had in quite a short while found a soldier's death. His
photograph hung crookedly just above the mantelpiece, with another of a
group of his regiment by which he had once set much store, and yet
another of the girl whom he had hoped some day to make his wife.

When the glow fell, and the bald, laconic message was delivered one
winter evening at the door, the mother bent her head low; and later, when
she found speech and had dropped the corner of her apron, was heard to
whisper to herself, "'Twas the Almighty's will." Then the tears welled up
afresh, as she rocked herself in her chair, gazing at the fire.

The effect upon the father was different. "What...!" he cried, as though
some one had struck him. A single candle flickered on the table; his lips
were drawn tight across his teeth; his fingers clutched the table-lid
convulsively, and he leant across in the direction of his wife.

"What...!" he exclaimed again.

"They've killed un," repeated the wife, the candle-light reflected in her
staring eyes. "Seth, Seth," she continued, following her husband, who had
taken up his hat, and was making for the door--"oh, Seth, Seth--'tis the
Almighty's will, man; I do know for sure it be;--Seth, Seth...!"

But Seth Moby had gone out into the night; and from that time forward he
walked as one suffering some injustice. He had always been a man of
uncertain temper, but this blow appeared to sour him. It is well to
remember that once at least in his life he had loved deeply.

* * * * *

The Over-Lord brought Murphy to the door, and arranged matters with
Martha Moby, just as he had often done with others in the same way. The
day had been wet; the lane on to which the garden-gate opened was muddy;
the dog had dirty feet. "You'll take care of him, I know. He's a good
dog--a good dog," he repeated, when he left.

It was after dark when M