He was a dog that had his proper business to mind, and did not take much account of us children. Shepherds who have the rearing of such dogs do not encourage their association with children, and regard it, where it occurs, as liable to be a source of deterioration in an animal which is bred to endure hardship, and to live under a sense of responsibility. And when the creature is trained to perfection, it is as valuable and important a member of the establishment on a sheep-farm as an ox or a horse on another farm. Gasto was one of the gravest dogs I ever saw, far too sober for play of any kind. Looking back, I cannot help associating him with wintry blasts and snow-drifts, in which he is buffeting the blast and wading through the drift, intent on his calling. Gasto knew but one master, my father, and for him he lived and laboured with a still, deep devotion. On one occasion, when my father was attacked by a dangerous illness, and confined to his room for a time, the sheep-dog wandered about disconsolately, declining even to attend to his ordinarily rigidly discharged office, at the bidding of any other than his master. As the days wore on, about the time that the disease approached its crisis, the dog stationed himself on the garden wall, and in a manner foreign to his usually rather impassive, preoccupied demeanour when he was not about his work, howled dismally—conduct which, however well meant, was not calculated to cheer the invalid, or the watchers in the sick-room. The dog then refused to touch food, and it was feared he would die. After every other mode of coaxing was tried, without effect, Gasto was taken into the room where my father, by that time recovering, lay in bed—was shown his master, and spoken to by him. I don’t think the dog attempted to leap on the bed, or did more than wag his bushy tail with immense relief and repressed gladness; but when a plate with his food was offered to him in the loved presence, he ate it quietly without further demur. Forthwith he went about his business, content to discharge it faithfully, as a trust committed to him, and to wait hopefully for the reappearance of his master. Poor Gasto, to my father’s great regret and indignation, was cruelly poisoned by some ill-disposed persons in the neighbourhood. Another dog of ours fell a victim to their misdeeds. He was a huge, fawn-coloured, young watch-dog, named “Neptune,” that was thus summarily cut off before he had got the beyond boisterous uncouthness of this hobble-de-hoyism.