The beautiful creature stops suddenly in the midst of his gambols, startled at the sound of a human voice where he thought himself quite alone. Then, wagging his bushy tail, he trots up to where she is sitting.
“You love! You perfect picture!” cries the girl ecstatically, throwing her arms round his snowy ruff and gazing into his soft, laughing brown eyes. “Where do you come from, and who do you belong to?” She kisses him in the middle of the forehead, and lays her cheek against his velvety ear. The dog presses affectionately against her, trying to lick her face with his hot panting tongue.
A low, shrill whistle. The unappreciative animal tears himself from her and stands for a moment gazing inquiringly around. But as he rushes from her there is a metallic sound, and lo! the little tin vessel containing her painting water rolls off the rock, upset by a stroke of his bushy tail, and the contents are swallowed, in a trice, by the thirsty sand.
Olive gives a little cry of dismay as she sees her morning’s work brought to a standstill. There is no fresh water anywhere about. She is gazing ruefully on the empty vessel, when a shadow falls between her and the sun. Looking up with a start, her glance meets that of another—not for the first time. Before her stands the stranger who gazed at her so attentively in the parish church on Sunday.
“I’m afraid my rascally dog has done serious damage. I don’t know how to apologise sufficiently on his behalf. Pray forgive him—and me—if you can. Is that absolutely your last drop?”
“I’m afraid it is. In fact—it is,” replies Olive, and her rueful smile changes to a brighter flash as she looks up at him. “But it was not altogether his fault—nor yours. I called him.”
“Oh! He is such a clumsy fellow sometimes, and yet he ought to have learnt manners by now. Here—Roy! Come here, you villain, and see what you’ve done. Now—what have you to say for yourself, sir!”
The dog walks slowly up with a downcast air and a drooping tail, though the latter is softly agitating in deprecatory wags. He looks very penitent beneath his master’s stern tones, but there is no trace of cowering.
“Please don’t be angry with him,” says Olive. “It really was all my fault for calling him. But, then, he is such a beauty.”
“There, Roy. Do you hear that—you bad dog? Come here and apologise. It isn’t often you fall in with those who return good for evil. Here—give a paw—no, not that one—the other.”