Lilly Foot came growling along from the vicinity of the barn, where, after the fatigue of bringing the cows from the distant meadow, she had gone to rest and recruit for night watching.
Having forgotten at the beginning of our story to introduce Lilly Foot under the family head we will pause for a moment and give her the notice to which her position and worth entitle her. She was a very respectable looking animal of the canine species originally coal black with the exception of one white foot, from which she derived her name, but now grown grey in the service of the family.
From puppyhood to old age, this faithful creature had made it her daily business to keep the cows, sheep, pigs, and poultry each in their proper places, and, having been raised on a quiet, orderly New England farm, had never in the course of her whole life, had occasion to perform more onerous nightly duties than to sleep with one eye open; consequently, she had come to consider regular rest as her lawful right, and was in no mood to bear the present encroachment.
"I believe the dog is getting old and cross," said Recta in a voice very like that which had occasioned her censure. "Here Lilly Foot, there's Old Spot; take her."
The words had scarcely left Recta's lips before Lilly Foot saw and flew violently at the object indicated,
"Lilly Foot."
They all heard—Edward's voice that came from the rose bush, and it would be difficult to say from which of the three, Louise, Recta, or Lilly Foot, he received the warmest greeting.
Mrs. Sherman had passed the crisis, of her disease, and Edward, assured of her convalesence, sought her bedside with a buoyant step.
"My dear son, to have you here is all the medicine I need now," she said, as she held him to her bosom.
The first greetings over, Edward's unnatural strength produced by anxiety and excitement gave way, and he lay down to rest that night prostrated in body and mind.