Obedient to the word of command, Bersak lowered himself—no other word adequately expresses the dog's movement,—to the hearthrug, and with his fore-paws stretched out watched the Squire's face.
How much would Redmond Maynard have given to see the door open and his son Ulick walk in. All he possessed—aye, more, many years of his life. He knew how Bersak would have leapt [to] his feet with a mighty bark of welcome, and a spring forward until his strong paws reached Ulick's shoulders.
He fixed his eyes on the door, and as he did so it opened. But it was not Ulick entering, although the newcomer brought a faint smile on his face.
"Irene!" he exclaimed, as the vision in furs came across the fire-lit room; "this is good of you. However did you get here; is it still snowing?"
"No, Squire, it is not snowing, although there is plenty of snow; and as to how I came here, well—look at my boots," and she held up her dress and disclosed a pair of strong "lace-ups," fitting perfectly her well-shaped feet.
"So you walked all the way from the Manor, and with the express object of cheering a lonely old man on a depressing winter's evening. I call that good of you, positively charitable, but Irene Courtly's name is ever associated with good works," said the Squire.
"I am afraid the good work on this occasion is closely allied with selfishness," she replied, smiling. "Being alone, I appreciate the feelings of others similarly situated, and that is how I came to think of you."
"Alone!" he exclaimed. "Where is Warren?"
"Gone to London. Important business. No hunting, you see, Squire," she said, with a laugh he thought had not a very true ring about it.
Redmond Maynard gave an impatient gesture, and Bersak pushed his head against her hand in doggish sympathy. Irene Courtly noticed the movement, and said—