“What is the matter?” I asked.
“Look at the dog!” she whispered.
He was cringing, cowering, with closed eyes, flattened to the ground, and sniffing softly, in an agony of terror!
It was dreadful to see so noble a beast in such a state, and probably more shocking to Julianna who had affection for him than to me.
“I cannot understand Laddie’s acting that way,” she said in a vexed tone. “He has done it twice now in the last two days. What can have happened to him?”
“He is very old, isn’t he?” I inquired.
“Yes,” she said, and a little coquettish smile flitted across her face. “He is older than I am. Come, Laddie. Come here, sir. What’s the matter, old pal?”
“Age,” said I. “There has never been a dog grow old in our family that he didn’t sooner or later develop a kind of second puppyhood. I have seen them do all manner of inexplicable things, and one old, toothless, wire-haired terrier used to snap at his shadow on the wall.”
“I should hate to have him die,” said Julianna when we were on the street again. She put her arm about his shaggy neck and I wished that I were he.
At her door I took off my glove. It was done unconsciously, but she saw it—she took off one of hers. Then she laughed and put her hand in mine.