Helena began suddenly to laugh. He looked at her inquiringly.
“I remember,” she said, still laughing, “at Knockholt—you—a half-grown lamb—a dog—in procession.” She marked the position of the three with her finger.
“What an ass I must have looked!” he said.
“Sort of silent Pied Piper,” she laughed.
“Dogs do follow me like that, though,” he said.
“They did Siegmund,” she said.
“Ah!” he exclaimed.
“I remember they had for a long time a little brown dog that followed him home.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed.
“I remember, too,” she said, “a little black-and-white kitten that followed me. Mater would not have it in—she would not. And I remember finding it, a few days after, dead in the road. I don’t think I ever quite forgave my mater that.”