[CHAPTER XXI.]
THE TIGER BECOMES A LAMB.
Gippie was tired out, and in an execrable temper. He had had to trot home all the way from the Tracys, for his mistress was carrying a long bundle under one arm, and a good-sized basket on the other. And now that she was in sight of the house, she was fairly running, and he could scarcely keep up with her.
Her head was turned far round, she was looking over her shoulder in the direction away from the front of the house, and yet she went right to the spot where the unfortunate Poacher had fallen.
Gippie knew very well what all her emotion was about. Like some deaf and partly blind human beings, he was more aware of happenings than people supposed. Poacher was dead, and he was not sorry for it, for he had been desperately jealous of him, and limping up to his mistress he impatiently whined to claim recognition.
"Oh, Gippie, what shall I do?" she moaned. "What shall I do? He was so good and gentle. I can't go in—I can't go in."
She was on her knees on the snow. Her hands were wandering over the depression where Poacher had lain. Her face was so pale and unhappy, that even Gippie's selfish heart was touched, and standing on his hind legs to reach her shoulder, he tenderly licked her right ear inside and out, until she brushed him aside with a half laugh, half sob, and a murmured, "You tickle my ear, Gippie."
She got up and moved slowly toward the back door, while the dog trotted along nimbly on his three legs after her. Why, what a vault! and Gippie shivered and turned his short-sighted eyes in the direction of the kitchen stove. It was black and cold, and the old man, sitting in the draughtiest corner of the room, right by the cellar door, was a dull, mottled purple. He did not speak when the door opened. He was morose and silent, and his whole appearance was that of a man in extreme distress.
Gippie was an excellent hater, and it did him good to see the old man suffer. However, he did not care to suffer with him, and squealing dismally, he planted himself near the delinquent stove.
'Tilda Jane's listlessness and painful depression were gone. With a quick exclamation, she had dropped her basket and bundle, and had sprung to the kindling box.