"Burying my little lady's dog," answered Thomas, shortly. He hath been here since the time of my Lord's father, and is apt to say his say to every one about the place, my Lord included. "Why, what ailed the dog?" asked my Lord. "You ought to know, if anybody did, I should say," was the surly answer. "The poor whelp had half his ribs broken. More shame for them as used a dumb beast so—or a Christian either," he muttered to himself. "There, Mistress Merton, that is done as well as if old Sexton himself had had the job; and I'll beg Dick Gardener for some of his double 'vilets,' to plant over him." So saying, he shouldered his spade and stalked off. To do my Lord justice, he did look heartily ashamed and sorry. "Well, well," said he. "I never meant to hurt the dog, I am sure. I suppose Bess is screaming herself into fits about it." I told him Lady Betty was very unhappy, but that she had not screamed at all, only cried bitterly. "Well, well, I am sorry," he said again. "Give my love to Bess, and tell her I did not mean to kill him. I will get her another, if I have to search the country for it." I was glad to hear him say so, and gave his message to Betty, though I did not say he meant to get her another dog. I knew she would not take kindly to the notion just yet, and, besides, it might be only another disappointment. She was very much comforted, and is beginning to be quite cheerful again, though I hear a deep sigh now and then. And here I must say that I am conscious of never having done justice to my dear father so long as he lived. He had his faults, no doubt, the chief of which were an over-sanguine disposition, which made every new scheme look absolutely desirable and feasible, and a too lavish use of money while he had it, but never was a pleasanter man to live with. He was always so genial and kindly: so sunny and cheerful, not by fits and starts, but steadily, and at all times. If mother were disappointed in her calculations—if some favorite dish were spoiled, or some book or paper mislaid, he was always the one to laugh it off and make everything pleasant again. Dear mother had her sorrows and cares, 'tis true, but I think she was a happy woman, after all. Father was such a help to her, and he was such a "safe" man to live with. It was like walking on the firm, solid ground, instead of upon treacherous ice, or over a mine; like sailing on the open sea instead of among rocks and quicksands, where one must be all the time on the lookout, and after all some sudden gust or unsuspected current may make all one's caution of no avail. I fancy it is this constant observing of her husband's humors which has made my Lady so silent and self-restrained in company, even at her own table, and which makes many people think her stiff and cold. She is like another person here in the nursery, or with Mrs. Corbet.