Her only fear of his sullenness was on behalf of her dogs. He hated them—she knew it by the menacing tremble of his crutches whenever the animals came within his reach. Therefore, her constant endeavour was to keep them out of his way. She had made two soft, persuasive beds in the wood-shed for them; but it was cold there, and she could not stay with them. They loved her with all the strength of their doggish hearts, and wished to be with her every minute of the time.
Often at night she would start up in bed from troubled dreams of a fierce old figure mounting the staircase, crutch in hand. There was no lock on her bedroom door, and if the old man had a sudden accession of strength, he could easily push aside the barrier of a wash-stand and two chairs that she put across this door before she went to bed.
She wished that Hank would come home. He might persuade his peculiar parent to end this unnatural silence, and give her a chance to become acquainted with him.
"Mebbe he'll soon come, Poacher," she whispered in the ear of the dog who was sitting close beside her. "We'll make up our minds for that, won't we?"
The dog was sitting up very straight beside her, and gazing benevolently down at Gippie, who lay on her lap. They were all out on the front door-step, and 'Tilda Jane was knitting industriously. It was a day like May in the month of March—there was a soft, mild air and a warm sun that made dripping eaves and melting snow-banks. Little streams of water were running from the garden to the road, and from the road to the hollow of the river, where large cakes of ice were slowly loosening themselves, breaking up and floating toward the sea. Spring was coming, and 'Tilda Jane, despite the incorrigible sulkiness of the person with whom she was living, felt it good to have a home.
"We'll have lots o' sport by an' by runnin' in the fields, Poacher," she whispered, lovingly, in his ear, "you ole comfort—always so sweet, an' good, an' never sassing back. You jus' creep away when you see some one comin' and don't say a word, do you? You're a sample to me; I wish I was like you. An' you never want to be bad, do you, an' chase back to the woods?"
The dog abandoned his stately attitude, and gave his tongue a quick fillip in the direction of her forehead. No—thanks to her intense devotion to him, he had no time for mournful reflections on the past.
"But I guess you'd like to see your master sometimes," she murmured. "I see a hankerin' in your eyes now an' agin, ole feller, an' then I jus' talk to you hard. You darlin'!" and throwing her arm around his neck, she squeezed him heartily.
He was boldly reciprocating, by licking her little, straight, determined nose, when there was a clicking sound around the corner of the house.