"Was he old?" I asked.
"Just turned five; the prime age, you know; at four they are too young, and at six they are aging: five is the age for a dog. That was why he was such a beauty; see what a coat he had, what a deep broad chest, and such a back! I'll take a bet with any one, you can hear that dog's bark for miles along the coast; that is to say, one could have heard it, for Dash's barking is all ended and over now."
Thus poor William sat lamenting over his lost favourite, recording his virtues and some of his many exploits, when I said—
"I suppose you will bury him in Miss Murray's garden?"
"No, that I shan't," he replied indignantly, "he shall be buried where he fell, as they bury soldiers after battle."
So saying, he drew forth his knife, and began digging a deep and narrow grave at the base of the sea-washed cliff; he lined it softly with his handkerchief, saying as he did so—
"Won't Abby have a precious hunt for it?"
Then he took Dash, gave him a last caress, gently laid him in his grave, covered him over with sand and earth, and marked the spot with a fragment of rock, on which he carved the day of the month and year.
"Won't you put his name?" I asked.
"No. Dash answered and obeyed no one but me; his name is nothing to any one else, and I don't want to know it."