“Barbary’s off to Canada, we are told,” said the Squire. “A better country for him than this. He has not been thought much of in this place, as you probably know. And it’s to be hoped that poor little maiden of his will get up her health again, which seems, by all accounts, to be much shattered.”
“I think she’ll get that up now,” said Mr. Reste, with a curious smile. “She is not going out with him, sir; she stays behind with me.”
“With you!” cried the Squire, staring.
“I have just asked her to be my wife, and she says, Yes,” said Mr. Reste. “An old uncle of mine over in India has died; he has left me a few hundreds a year, so that I can afford to marry.”
“I’m sure I am glad to hear it,” said the Squire, heartily. “Poor Don, though! And what did Barbary do with him?”
“Buried him in his back garden, under the summer-apple tree.”
Coming home from our night’s work at this juncture, we found, to our surprise, a great dog fastened to the strong iron garden bench.
“What a magnificent dog!” exclaimed Tod, while the mother sprang back in alarm. “It is something like Don.”
It was very much like Don. Quite as large, and handsomer.
“I shall take it in, Johnny; the Pater would like to see it, There, mother, you go in first.”