“Thet so?” inquired the newcomer, with interest. “Et’s a powerful good salve.” His straggling yellow beard and much-battered straw hat shed a mellow lustre on his leathery, sun-tanned face, where twinkled clear blue eyes.
“I’ve jest been up by th’ kennels,” he volunteered.
“I hope you found the family all well?” the rector inquired, with gravely humorous concern.
“Toler’ble. Th’ ole mastiff won’t let me git clost ’nough t’ say more’n howdy do. He’s wuss ’n a new town marshal!” He rasped a sulphur match against his trouser-leg and lit his short clay pipe, hanging his head awkwardly to do so, and disclosing the inquisitive muzzle and beady eyes of a diminutive setter pup, which he carried under his butternut coat, supported in his forearm. Margaret patted the cold nose, and its owner displayed it pridefully.
“He ain’t but three weeks old,” he said, “en’ I’m a-bringin’ him up on th’ bottle. Ef I fetch him eround he’ll make a fine setter one o’ these days, fer he’s got good points. Look at th’ shape o’ his toes! Et goes agin my grain t’ lose a puppy. Somehow et seems ez ef they hev ez much right t’ live ez some other people.” His mouth relaxed broadly about his pipe-stem, with a damp smile.
“What’s the matter with him?” asked the rector.
“Jest ailin’, puny like. Dogs ez a lot like babies; some on ’em could be littered en’ grow up in a snowdrift, en’ others could be born in a straw kennel en’ die ef you look at ’em. This one was so weakly thet Bess, my ole setter, wouldn’t look at him. Jest poked him eround with her nose, poor little devil! en’ wouldn’t give him ez much ez a lick. Et’s a funny thing,” he continued, stuffing down the embers in his pipe with a hard forefinger, “th’ difference there ez thet way between dogs en’ folks. I never seen a woman yit thet wouldn’t take all kinds o’ keer fer a sick baby, but a dog puts all her nussin’ on her healthy young uns en’ lets th’ ailin’ shift fer theirselves. Mebbe et’s because she hez so many all at once, but I guess it’d be the same with women ef they hed a dozen at once ez et ez now. The parson here”—he blinked at Margaret with a suspicion of levity—“says ez how et’s because th’ dogs ain’t got no souls. I don’t know how thet ez, but et looks ez ef et might be so.”
The rector laughed good-humoredly as the decreasing figure silhouetted itself against the field. “Condy’s a unique character,” he said, “but immensely likable. He has a quaint philosophy that isn’t down in the books, but it’s none the less interesting for that. I must be going now,” he continued; “sermons in stones and books in running brooks won’t do for my congregation.”
“You will go up to the house and see Lydia?”
“I have already seen her. She told me I should find you somewhere in the fields, she thought. Your cousin is a great sufferer,” he added gently. “She is a beautiful character—uncomplaining under a most grievous affliction. I am deeply sorry for her, and yet”—there was a note of perplexity in his voice—“sometimes I believe I pity her husband even more! I am not well acquainted with him personally. I wish I might know him better. She often speaks to me of him. Her love for him is most exquisite; it always reminds me of the perfume of the night-blooming-cereus.”