He was running as if trying to escape something pursuing him, closing his eyes and shutting his ears, while an ugly dog, with big flabby paws and a nose like a black quivering mushroom, one ear with a slit in it, and a tail something like a curled-up sausage, followed him, always jumping, always trying to lick his face.
“Was that your dog?” asked Kitty.
The boy stopped. “Yes, his name was ‘Trot.’ He loved me, he trusted me, he followed me wherever I went; but I grew ashamed of him, for every one called him a cur. The other boys laughed at me and nicknamed me ‘Master Mongrel,’ so I made up my mind to get rid of him. Twice I managed to lose him, but he found his way home, and when he saw me he licked my hand and nearly wagged off his tail with gladness. One winter day I took him off for a long walk; he trotted trustfully by my side as if it were a holiday. I took him to a wood a long way off, and I tied him to a tree with a cord and left him there. I did not mind his whines and his howls; I left him there. That night it came on to snow; I tried to be glad; I was pleased to have got rid of him. Next day it still snowed. I thought I would go and fetch him home. I went to the place where I had left him. I could not find him, it was like a graveyard of snow. I dug and dug in the snow with my hands, I dug till I found him. He lay quite stiff. I whistled and called ‘Trot.’ He just opened one eye, gave his tail a little wag, put out his old tongue and tried to lick my hand, and died. Oh, I wish he was alive again! I wish he was alive again!”
The mist closed over the picture as the boy repeated his unavailing wish.
“When will they have the kiss of forgiveness?” asked Kitty with a little sob, for now she knew that the punishment of those children was hard. They were to feel the innocence and trustfulness of the creatures they hurt, and to realize all the happiness they had destroyed.
“There is one day in the year—Christmas Day!” said Love.
“Christmas Day!” repeated Kitty.
She tried to remember when Christmas Day would be: was it to-morrow, or next year, or next week? Was it in spring, summer, autumn, or winter? What season was it now? She had forgotten everything. Everything had slipped from her mind but the thought of the children in Punishment Land.
Was it because she thought of Christmas Day that a delicious smell of hot jam and cakes stole through the fog, as the picture began to form?