d long round, she wore a lead on
her collar now, so that even sudden inspirations to galloping were
checked in the bud, and a sedate gait was maintained always.
Without troubling her head to think much about it, Tara had a
generally contented feeling that these precautions were wise and
good. The same prudent feeling influenced her in the matter of
meals now. Though she frequently felt that she would much rather be
without her morning milk, she always lapped it carefully up, and
conscientiously swabbed the dish bright and dry with her great red
tongue. She could not have explained, even to herself, just why she
did these things; but sub-conscious understanding and fore-knowledge
play a large part in a Wolfhound's life, and so does sub-conscious
memory and the inherited thing we call instinct. Without considering
prehistoric ancestry, there were fifteen hundred years of lineal
Irish Wolfhound ancestry behind Tara; her own family dated back so far.
For instance:--

In the year 391, seven centuries before the Conqueror landed in
England, there was a Roman Consul whose name was Quintus Aurelius
Symmachus. In a letter that he wrote to his brother Flavianus, he
said:--

"In order to win the favour of the Roman people for our Quaestor,
you have been a generous and diligent provider of novel
contributions to our solemn shows and games, as is proved by your
gift of seven Irish hounds. All Rome viewed them with wonder, and
fancied they must have been brought hither in iron cages. For such
a gift, I tender you the greatest possible thanks."

[Illustration]

That these Irish Wolfhounds of fifteen hundred years ago were big
and fierce, and brave and strong, you may know from the conviction
of the Roman people that they must have been brought in iron cages.
Also, friend Symmachus writes in other letters of the boars, and
lions, and the armed Saxons provided to do battle with the Irish
Wolfhounds. Also, he shows the quaintest sort of annoyance over the
fact that some twenty-nine of these perverse Saxons, who were
obtained to fight the Irish Wolfhounds, cut their throats on the
night before the games--their own throats, I mean--and so spoiled
sport for the holiday-loving Romans. In the first century of our
era, Mesroida, the King of the Leinstermen, had an Irish Wolfhound
which was so mighty in battle that it was said to defend the whole
province, and to fill all Ireland with its fame. For this hound,
six thousand cows, besides