Dick, in his usual excellent health and enjoyment of life, accompanied his mistress in a walk, with all his ordinary pleasure in the privilege. It was not till some hours later, in the bustle of guests assembling for dinner, that Dick’s master suddenly summoned his mistress from her toilet with the grievous news that Dick was dying. The little dog had been discovered rigid in a fit. So entirely was the result of what had taken place in the morning unapprehended, that it was not till various remedies had been tried in vain that Dick’s mistress suddenly recalled the episode of the poisoned bread. A clever young veterinary surgeon who was within reach came and administered antidotes, which poor little Dick, in the intervals between his paroxysms, was induced to take from the mistress who was so bitterly distressed by his fate; but all was of no avail, the dog succumbed speedily to the deadly poison, and died before the dinner guests had met. So Dick and Wallace rest together, like true comrades, in what was once their pleasant playground. [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [A] In addition to the instinct of obedience which in itself rendered Wallace tractable, the great dog had a little weakness, of which I have heard his master say he made use in conducting his four-footed retainer’s education. “Wallace wight” “would have gone round the world” for a bit of sugar—the usual reward of a _fait accompli_. [B] However, I have heard of an old terrier who had lived many years leading an entirely domestic life in a large town, and who, on being taken by its owners to country quarters—which happened, unfortunately, to be in a game country—ran off the very night of his arrival, hunted the whole summer night through, and turned up the next morning, after his friends had resigned all hope of recovering him. He was dead tired, and in a few hours was crying out under paroxysms of rheumatism, which his unwonted exposure, together with his weight of years, brought upon him. [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. MY EARLY FRIENDS. ONE of the remotest visions of my infancy—dim as the pearly dawn itself—is of two dogs called Flora and Danger, priest-grey and brown-and-yellow terriers respectively, which filled a prominent place in my baby regard. They soon vanished from the scene, and some time elapsed before they were succeeded by Fido—a small, sleek, short-haired, brown dog, resembling an English terrier, which was partly my own property, and, much more than any doll or toy, the darling of my early childhood. I fancy Fido was not very well descended, and that his small size was due to accident, or to some arresting process practised in his puppyhood. But he was a well-made little dog; he had a keen tiny face, with erect ears; and he was amazingly agile in his habits. In fact his agility, together with his audacity, brought about his untimely death—the manner of which remains, at this distance of time, more impressed on my mind than any incident in his short life.