The crowds of dogs that sometimes go yelping and tearing through the streets were to him objects of the loftiest scorn. From front window or porch he would look down his nose at them, then turn, stepping high, to march off and lie down in some remote corner where only the faintest echoes of their din could reach him.
One evening, while Julius and I were at choir-practice, we heard something that distressed me greatly. I felt that I could not stay, so we slipped out and hurried home. As soon as we were inside of our own door I threw myself into Julius's arms with childlike sobbing.
He tried to comfort me, but I could only hear my own heart-throbs. All at once he exclaimed,—
"Look, Judith, look at Bruno!"
His tone was so strange, it penetrated even my grief. I raised my head and there was Bruno, standing upright, his head against Julius's shoulder, as close to me as he could get, his eyes full of tears, the picture of woe.
"You see Bruno is crying too," said Julius.
As soon as Bruno saw me look up, he threw back his head and wagged his tail as if to say,—
"Come now, that's better, much better."
My tears still fell, but they were no longer bitter. There was something about the sympathy of that dumb creature which touched a chord not to be reached by anything human. It was so unlooked for and so sincere.
It was wonderful how he entered into all our feelings. In those days I was very much afraid of thunder-storms. In some subtle way Bruno divined this and kept the closest watch for clouds. If the heavens began to be overcast, he would go from window to window, noting developments, coming to me every few minutes to look into my face and wag his tail reassuringly.