"Just turned five; the prime age, you know; at four they are too young, and at six they are aging: five is the age for a dog. That was why he was such a beauty; see what a coat he had, what a deep broad chest, and such a back! I'll take a bet with any one, you can hear that dog's bark for miles along the coast; that is to say, one could have heard it, for Dash's barking is all ended and over now." Thus poor William sat lamenting over his lost favourite, recording his virtues and some of his many exploits, when I said-- "I suppose you will bury him in Miss Murray's garden?" "No, that I shan't," he replied indignantly, "he shall be buried where he fell, as they bury soldiers after battle." So saying, he drew forth his knife, and began digging a deep and narrow grave at the base of the sea-washed cliff; he lined it softly with his handkerchief, saying as he did so-- "Won't Abby have a precious hunt for it?" Then he took Dash, gave him a last caress, gently laid him in his grave, covered him over with sand and earth, and marked the spot with a fragment of rock, on which he carved the day of the month and year. "Won't you put his name?" I asked. "No. Dash answered and obeyed no one but me; his name is nothing to any one else, and I don't want to know it." We walked on. As a projecting rock was going to hide the spot from our view, William turned round to give it one last glance, then he looked at me wishfully, and said, "I had him from a pup, and I taught him all his tricks." From that day William and I were friends. We met to talk of Dash at first, and afterwards of other things, for even the best of dogs must expect to be forgotten. William generously forgave me my sex, and confided to me his troubles. His aunt, it seems, kindly intended him as a present to the Church, but William vowed no mortal power should induce him to turn a parson, and boldly declared for the sea, in a midshipman's berth, against which his aunt, whose ideas of nautical life were summed up in grog and biscuit, entered a solemn protest.