It was Christmas Eve, I have said. We had gone through the snow, with Mrs. Todhetley, to help the Miss Pages decorate the church, and the Squire was alone after dinner, when Mr. Reste was shown in. "Is it you!" cried the Squire in hearty welcome. "So you have come down for Christmas!" "Partly for that," answered Mr. Reste. "Partly, sir, to see you." "To see me! You are very good. I hope you'll dine with us to-morrow, if Barbary will spare you." "Ah! I don't know about that; I'm afraid not. Anyway, I have a tale to tell you first." Sitting on the other side the fire, opposite the Squire, the wine and walnuts on the table between them, he told the tale of that past Tuesday night. He had gone out with Barbary in a fit of foolishness, not intending to do any harm to the game or to join in any harm, though Barbary had insisted on his carrying a loaded gun. The moon was remarkably bright. Not long had they been out, going cautiously, when on drawing near Dyke Neck, they became aware that some poachers were already abroad, and that the keepers were tracking them; so there was nothing for it but to steal back again. They had nearly reached Caramel Cottage, and were making for the side gate, when a huge dog flew up, barking. Barbary called out that it was the Squire's dog, and---- "Bless me!" interjected the Squire at this. "Yes, sir, your dog, Don," continued Mr. Reste. "Barbary very foolishly kicked the dog: he was in a panic, you see, lest the noise of its barking should bring up the keepers. That kick must have enraged Don, and he fastened savagely on Barbary's leg. I, fearing for Barbary's life, or some lesser injury, grew excited, and fired at the dog. It killed him." The Squire drew a deep breath.