He lifted his hat again, with the reverential gesture characteristic of him. As he stood bare-headed, a glint of the dying sun fell on his hair and forehead. It made him look old and dusty and tired.
Then Pamela went away slowly across the park to the house, while he stood watching her. When she had entered the house, he went back down the wood path.
As he went slowly and sadly, he felt something thrust against him. He looked down. It was Pamela's dog, Pat, who had remained behind, hunting an elusive rabbit, and had only just come up with their trail. The dog jumped about him with demonstrations of joy.
Lord Glengall stooped down and patted the rough head.
"I am not to be your new master, after all, old fellow," he said.
Pat licked his hand vigorously, and then looked up inquiringly into his face.
"She has gone home," said Lord Glengall in answer, "and I should be a bad substitute."
But Pat manifested very unmistakably that he was going to accompany this friend of his back into the woods.
"Ah! good little beast," said Lord Glengall, oddly comforted. "It is good to have a dog sorry for one, Pat."
[END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN.]