"Did you ever owe your life to a dog?" inquired Colonel Hamilton, turning to Lady Constance.
"Oh, yes, I did once," was her reply.
"Some years ago I was given a large dog—half bloodhound and half mastiff. To women and children he was very gentle, but he had an inveterate dislike to all men. There was nothing he would not allow a baby to do to him. It might claw his eyes, sit on his back, tap his nose, scream in his ears, and pull his hair; and 'George,' for such was his name, would sit and look at me with a sort of broad good-natured smile.
"One year we all went up to a shooting-lodge in Perthshire. In the paddock before the house there was a bull. I complained of our neighbour, for I thought he had an evil eye, and might some day do the children some mischief.
"Our landlord, however, would not listen to my complaints.
"'Dinna ye fash yersel,' Geordie,' he said to his herdsman, 'or take notice of what the women-folk say. It is a douce baistie, and he'll nae harm bairns nor doggies.'
"In spite of this, one afternoon I had occasion to cross the meadow, when suddenly I turned round and saw the bull running behind me. He bellowed fiercely as he advanced.
"Happily, when he charged I was able to spring aside, and so he passed me. But I saw that the wall at the end of the field was several hundreds yards off, and I felt, if the bull turned again to pursue me, my life would not be worth much.
"Then I saw my faithful George standing sullenly beside me, all his 'hackles' up, and waiting for the enemy with an ominous growl.