"There's something in his soul
O'er which his melancholy sits on brood."
—Shakespeare's Hamlet.
It was a beautiful morning, whose beauty could only hurt, of the first June since Joy-of-Life went away. All green paths were desolate for lack of her glad step. And the stately kennel that had been known from the first as "Sigurd's House" stood silent, its green door closed on bare floor and cobwebbed walls. Stray cats passed it unconcerned and hoptoads took their ease on the edges of "Sigurd's Drinking-cup" hollowed out in the adjacent rock. In an hour when the pain of living seemed wellnigh unbearable, the Angel of Healing called me up by telephone. His voice was gruff, but kindly.
"Say, you miss that old dog of yours a sight, don't you?"
I could feel the confidential pressure of Sigurd's golden head against my knee as I briefly assented, recognizing the speaker as the proprietor of certain collie kennels not far distant.
"He had a right good home, that dog had, and you must have got pretty well used to collie ways."
"If you were going to ask me to buy another collie, please don't. Sigurd is my dog—forever."
"Well! Since you put it that way—but I'm at my wit's end to get rid of a collie pup—a pretty little fellow, rough Scotch, sable and white, like yours—that's scairt at his own shadow."
"What scared him?"