ue to do so till finally
dynamited out of existence, _ut supra_.

She is looking out under her hand--to make sight possible against the
blaze--at a man who is plodding across the nearest opening in the
woodland. How drenched he must be! What can possess him, to choose a day
like this to go afoot through an undergrowth of bracken a day's
raindrift has left water-charged? She knows well what a deluge meets him
at every step, and watches him, pressing through it as one who has felt
the worst pure water can do, and is reckless. She watches him into a
clear glade, with a sense of relief on his behalf. She does not feel
officially called upon to resent a stranger with a dog--in a territory
sacred to game!--for the half-overgrown track he seems to have followed
is a world of fallow-deer and pheasants. She is the daughter of the
house, and trespassers are the concern of Stephen Solmes the head
gamekeeper.

The trespasser seems at a loss which way to go, and wavers this way and
that. His dog stands at his feet looking up at him, wagging a slow tail;
deferentially offering no suggestion, but ready with advice if called
upon. The young lady's thought is:--"Why can't he let that sweet dog
settle it for him? _He_ would find the way." Because she is sure of the
sweetness of that collie, even at this distance. Ultimately the
trespasser leaves the matter to the dog, who appears gratified and
starts straight for where she stands. Dogs always do, says she to
herself. But there is the haw-haw fence between them.

The dog stops. Not because of the obstacle--what does he care for
obstacles?--but because of the courtesies of life. The man that made
this sunk fence did it to intercept any stray collie in the parkland
from scouring across into the terraced garden, even to inaugurate
communications between a strange young lady and the noblest of God's
creatures, his owner. That is the dog's view. So he stands where the
fence has stopped him, a beseeching explanatory look in his pathetic
eyes; and a silky tail, that is nearly dry already, marking time slowly.
A movement of permission would bring him across into the garden; but
then--is he not too wet? Young Lady Gwendolen says "No, dear!"
regretfully, and shakes her head as though he would understand the
negative. Perhaps he does, for he trots back to his master, who,
however--it must be admitted--has whistled for him.

The pedestrian turns to go, but sees the lady well, though not very near