When we had examined all the beautiful things the room contained, or made pretense of doing so—for I was ever interested in Constance to the exclusion of other matters—she pointed with a show of pride to the battered head of an animal fastened above the door by which we had entered, exclaiming:
"See, Gilbert, where papa's put the horrid thing! I can never look at it without a shudder."
"It's ugly enough, I'm sure," I answered; "but what is it?"
"Surely you ought to know, if any one," she answered, taking hold of my hand and leading me close to the object.
"It's so cut up one can't tell whether it's the head of a pig or a panther," I answered.
"It's neither; but you're only making believe, Gilbert?"
"No; but I never saw anything half so ugly."
"Oh, fie! how stupid you are, or make out to be."
"Well, what is it? I can't guess," I answered, but in no hurry to have her tell me, so sweet was her voice and so entrancing her contention.
"Well, I've a good mind not to tell you, but it's the head of the wolf you killed. Papa had it mounted just as it was brought from Wild Plum; and it grows more ugly every day, I think," she answered, scowling at the hideous thing.