At first I had no idea that they were not coming back. Though I heard the gardener say that they were "gone for good," it did not occur to me that that meant harm to us. They often went out for a day and returned in the evening; so at the usual time I expected their ring at the bell, and went to the gate to meet them. But no bell rang; no carriage drove up; no sound of horses' hoofs was to be heard in the distance, though I listened till the gardener came to lock up for the night, and ordered me to the court, where it was my business to keep guard.
Next morning there was a strange stillness and idleness. No master taking his early walk over the grounds. No Lily gathering her flowers before breakfast. No John to open the stable door, and let me in to bark good morning to the horses. No horses; a boy sweeping the deserted stable, and rack and manger empty. No carriage; the coach-house filled with lumber, and the shutters closed in the loft. No servants about. I rather congratulated myself upon the disappearance of Lily's maid, who had a habit of making uncivil speeches if I crossed her path in running to meet Lily. That maid and I had never been friends since I once had the misfortune to shake myself near her when coming out of the water. I confess I did wet her, and I did dirty her; but I did not know that water would hurt her coat,—it never hurt mine; and she need not have borne malice for ever; I should have forgiven her long ago if she had dirtied me. But whenever she saw me she took the opportunity of saying something mortifying, as, "Out of the way; don't come nigh me with that great mop of yours!" or, "Get along with you! I wonder what Miss Lily can see to like in such a great lumbering brute." I kept out of her way as much as I could, and it was now some consolation that she did not come in mine.
But it was a dull day. In due time the gardener's wife called, and gave me my breakfast, setting it down outside the kitchen door. It was a comfortable breakfast, for she was a good-natured woman, not likely to neglect Lily's charge to take care of me. I wagged my tail, and looked up in her face to thank her, but she was already gone without taking farther notice of me. She had done her work of giving me the necessaries of life, and my feelings were nothing to her. How I remembered my pretty Lily, and wished for her pleasant welcome.
After breakfast I went on an expedition to the flower-garden, thinking I might have a chance of finding some trace of my mistress in that favourite haunt. The gate was shut, but I heard steps, and scratched to be let in. I scratched and whined for some time; Lily would not have kept me half so long. At last the gardener looked over the top of the gate:
"Oh, it's you," said he; "I thought so. But you had best go and amuse yourself in places proper for you; you are not coming to walk over my flowerbeds any more."
He did not speak unkindly, and I had often heard him tell Lily that I was "best out of the flower-garden;" so I could not reasonably grumble; but his speech showed the change in my position, and I walked away from the closed gate with my mind much oppressed, and my tail between my legs.
I intended to go and meditate in the boat, but here again I was disappointed; the boat-house was locked; I had no resource but to jump into the water and swim to a little island in which Lily had a favourite arbour. There in a summer's day she often rested, hidden in jessamine and honeysuckle; and there I now took refuge, attracted to the spot by its strong association with herself.
I scarcely know whether I sought the arbour with the hope of finding her present, or the intention of mourning her absent; but I went to think about her. Alas! that was all I could do. She was not there. A book of hers had been left unheeded on the ground, and I laid down and placed my paws upon it to guard it, as I had often done before. In this position I fell asleep, and remained unconscious of fortunes or misfortunes, till I was awakened by dreaming of dinner. That dream could be realised. I jumped up, shook myself, and yawned more comfortably than I had done all day.
On moving my paws from Lily's book, it struck me that it would be right to carry it home to her; and then once more the hope revived of finding her at home herself. It was the most likely thing in the world that she should come home to dinner. Everybody did, I supposed; I was going home to dinner myself.
With the book in my mouth, I swam across the water. Perhaps I did not keep it quite dry, but I carried it into the house, and laid it down before the gardener and his wife, who were the only persons I could see on the premises.