Ben Bence, who was a just man, ventured to represent that Trafton did not foresee the result of his action; but, in the sharpness of her bereavement, Mrs. Trafton would find no excuse for him.
Herbert, too, looked pale and distressed. He had a genuine attachment for Robert, whose good qualities he was able to recognize and appreciate, even if he was a fisherman’s nephew.
He, too, thought sorrowfully of his poor friend, snatched from life and swept by the cruel and remorseless sea to an ocean grave. He, too, had his object of resentment.
But for George Randolph, he reflected, Robert would now be alive and well, and he resolved to visit George with his severest reproaches.
While all were plunged in a similar grief a strange thing happened.
The door of the cabin was closed by John Trafton as he went out.
Suddenly there was heard a scratching at the door, and a sound was heard as of a dog trying to excite attention.
“It must be my dog Dash,” said Herbert. “I wonder how he found me out?”
He advanced to the door and opened it. Before him stood a dog, but it was not Dash. It was a large black dog, with an expression of intelligence almost human. He had in his mouth what appeared to be a scrap of writing paper. This he dropped on the ground when he saw that he had attracted Herbert’s attention.
“What does this mean?” thought Herbert in great surprise, “and where does this dog come from?”