“Down, Bruno!” cried Gertrude excitedly. “He does not like you. He might bite.”
“He had better not,” cried the young man merrily. “Dogs must not bite friends—his mistress’ friends,” he added meaningly; and, as through the slightly broken opening in the yews he saw Gertrude shrink, he continued hurriedly: “no, it is not at me, but at something about the grass. Oh, I see, he has found a broken stick.”
For as he spoke, the dog had ferreted out of the long grass, at the foot of the hedge, a broken walking-stick—the upper part of a strong oaken cudgel, whose top was a heavy root knob, over which he growled savagely.
“Why, Bruno, what’s the matter?” cried Gertrude. “Perhaps you had better go.”
“Oh, no; I don’t like to be afraid of a dog; and, besides, I think they have nous enough to know when you mean well by them. Here, old chap, let’s look at your head.”
Bruno ceased growling, and raised his muzzle with the stick across his mouth, as the young man parted the yew bushes and knelt down.
“Yes, Bruno—good dog—friends,” said Gertrude nervously.
“He does not quite believe it yet,” said the young man. “Suppose you shake hands with me.”
She hesitated a moment as she looked in his eyes, but they were so frank and pleasant to gaze upon that she halted no longer, but placed her hand in his, and then tried to snatch it back in alarm, but it was pinioned tightly in a warm, firm pressure.
“There Bruno,” he said, “your mistress and I are friends, and she will never have one more faithful and true. Now, old fellow,” he added, loosing the hand, “let’s have that stick. Good dog. What are you growling at?”