The conversation of the two men was stopped by a low bark from the dog.
“Dreaming,” said Bill; “does a lot o’ sleep.”
“Brain,” said the other, listening—“I feared as much all along. It’s all up, Bill.”
Bill was down, and had got one of his hands under the dog’s head.
The bark came again: only a very weak one; not enough to disturb anybody near. It became continuous after that; grew a little louder; then gradually fainter.
Perhaps he was hunting birds, though it may be doubted. More likely he was working to the hand over the sunlit fields, in the glad air, with a full life all before him yet; and in the company of one whom he loved with his whole heart, and to whom, while learning constantly himself, he, a dog, had taught no end of things.
There can be little doubt that he was working by the hand. Of course he was. But the hand that was beckoning him now was from over the border—from the land where there is room for both the man and the dog, and where there shall be a blessed reunion with old friends.
The bark died away: Murphy was dead.
“Not five years; or only just,” remarked Bill.
Both men heaved a sigh.