In another moment both saw a dark animal dash across the field in pursuit. Hillary fired, and the creature fell over.
'Bring a lantern, Honor,' he shouted. 'Let us see whose dog it is.'
She ran indoors. Her father and Kate had been roused by the report.
When she returned with the lantern to the field, 'You were right, Honor,' said Hillary, 'this is Uncle Taverner's Rover. Poor fellow, we were friends once, when I was allowed at Langford. Now he and his master have fallen to bad ways. I have put the seal on my misdoings, and Uncle Taverner will never forgive me for having shot his dog.'
'Well, perhaps you will recover your wits now,' said Kate.
'Wits! why?'
'Wits—you have been dull enough lately. Perhaps as the dog went sheep-killing, your wits went wool-gathering. They have been dead, or not at home.'
'Go home, Larry,' said Honor; 'and take our best thanks to warm you.'
Hillary, however, seemed ill-disposed to go. He hung about the kitchen pretending that his fingers wanted warming, or considering what was to be done with the carcass of the dog. What he really desired was a further chat with Honor. But Kate would not allow him to be alone with her sister, though unsuspicious of the state of his feelings, and indifferent to them herself. She was like a mosquito that buzzes about a sleep-drunk man, threatening him, rousing him, settling, and stabbing, and escaping before his hand can chastise. The more she plied him with her jokes, the more dispirited he became, and incapable of repartee.
'Well,' said he at length, 'I suppose it is time for all to go to bed. You have all seen enough of the dead dog.'