I throw down my pen with a sigh of relief.
I think I have finished my story; my noble deerhound thinks so too. He gets slowly up from the hearthrug, conies towards me, and places his honest head on my arm, but his eyes are fixed on mine.
It is not patting that he wants, nor petting either.
'Come out now, master,' he seems to say, speaking with soft brown eyes and wagging tail; 'come out, 287 master; mount your fleetest horse, and let us have a glorious gallop across the hills. See how the sun shines and glitters on grass, on leaves and lake! While you have been writing there day after day, I, your faithful dog, have been languishing. Come, master, come!'
And we go together.
When I return, refreshed, and run up stairs to the room in the tower, I find dear auntie there. She has been reading my manuscript.
'There is,' she says, 'only one addition to make.'
'Name it, auntie,' I say; 'it is not yet too late.'
But she hesitates.
'It is almost a secret,' she says at last, bending down and smoothing the deerhound.