Rona answered our expectations, and soon took Fido’s position in the house. She was a thoroughly worthy little dog; I don’t know that she was very clever, but I can vouch that she was exceedingly companionable. In her prime she was perfectly good-humoured to her friends, though I do not think that she was ever very accessible to strangers. She had queer ways of her own. She was very fond of fish, to which, as an article of food, dogs have either a great liking or loathing. She slept on the lower shelf of a cupboard, reserved for her use, in a dressing-room attached to the nursery. She would retire there for a morning snooze, and members of the family, unaware of her proximity, would be startled, on going into the nursery, by loud snores, exactly resembling those of a human being guilty of snoring, proceeding from the dressing-room at high noon. She had been taught to beg, and had great faith in the efficacy of the supplication. She would be found in a room alone begging with great patience to a closed door, and confidently expecting it would yield to the appeal. Rona was peculiarly affected by certain kinds of music, as dogs sometimes are. I have read different opinions expressed of the impression made by music on dogs, with an attempt to decide whether it is pain or pleasure which is produced on the creature by the melody that awakens its attention and rouses its emotions. The preponderance of evidence tends to indicate that it is pain, or at least some form of fear or distress, which music causes in the dog. What I remember of Rona’s behaviour when so excited confirms this idea, though we children chose to class the performance as singing, and boasted loudly of it to our companions, who used to wait breathlessly for it to begin, and were filled with delighted wonder, amounting to awe, when the dog was got to exhibit its talent. The sound of a piano or of singing did not move her in the least, but an accordion drawn out, or a violin played, touched the chord which vibrated to music in Rona’s composition. She would generally retire beneath a chair or sofa, with a restless, disturbed air (I suppose we made out her withdrawal to be the assumed modesty of a great performer); and if the music were continued, she would raise her head and utter in prolonged bays and howls what, I am satisfied, was her protest against the sound which, for some occult reason, both excited and rendered her miserable. It was an evident relief to her when the concert, in which she had felt bound to bear a part, was brought to a conclusion.