He was thirteen--which is equivalent to the human age of seventy. His long, clean lines had become blurred with flesh. He was undeniably stout. When he ran fast, he rolled slightly in his stride. Nor could he run as rapidly or as long as of yore. While he was not wheezy or asthmatic, yet a brisk five-mile walk would make him strangely anxious for an hour's rest. He would not confess, even to himself, that age was beginning to hamper him so cruelly. And he sought to do all the things he had once done--if the Mistress or the Master were looking. But when he was alone, or with the other dogs, he spared himself every needless step. And he slept a great deal. Withal, Lad's was a hale old age. His spirit and his almost uncanny intelligence had not faltered. Save for the silvered muzzle--first outward sign of age in a dog--his face and head were as classically young as ever. So were the absurdly small fore-paws--his one gross vanity--on which he spent hours of care each day, to keep them clean and snowy. He would still dash out of the house as of old--with the wild trumpeting bark which he reserved as greeting to his two deities alone--when the Mistress or the Master returned home after an absence. He would still frisk excitedly around either of them at hint of a romp. But the exertion _was_ an exertion. And despite Lad's valiant efforts at youthfulness, everyone could see it was. No longer did he lead the other dogs in their headlong rushes through the forest in quest of rabbits. Since he could not now keep the pace, he let the others go on these breath-and-strength-taking excursions without him; and he contented himself with an occasional lone and stately walk through the woods where once he had led the run--strolling along in leisurely fashion, with the benign dignity of some plump and ruddy old squire inspecting his estate. There had been many dogs at The Place during the thirteen years of Lad's reign--dogs of all sorts and conditions, including Lad's worshiped collie mate, the dainty gold-and-white "Lady." But in this later day there were but three dogs beside himself. One of them was Wolf, the only surviving son of Lad and Lady--a slender, powerful young collie, with some of his sire's brain and much of his mother's appealing grace--an ideal play-dog. Between Lad and Wolf there had always been a bond of warmest affection. Lad had trained this son of his and had taught him all he knew. He unbent from his lofty dignity, with Wolf, as with none of the others. The second of the remaining dogs was Bruce ("Sunnybank Goldsmith"), tawny as Lad himself, descendant of eleven international champions and winner of many a ribbon and medal and cup. Bruce was--and is--flawless in physical perfection and in obedience and intelligence.