Among all the trivialities of our life together in those early days it is difficult to make a selection of saliences. Rose was not a remarkable child in any way, except perhaps in the lack of special qualities. She was quiet and self-contained and, I used to think, very sensible: perhaps her general good sense was her strongest point. She was not a universal sympathizer, but where her affections were set she was very tenacious in her kindnesses and even tendernesses. I remember an incident which illustrates this characteristic. We had at that time a dog named Rex, a Clumber spaniel, which all too seldom I took out shooting. He was called mine, but in reality was Rose’s, fixing himself to her like a shadow, and being miserable when she was out and he had not been allowed to go too. Well, one evening at the time when Rose took out his great dish of broken victuals, Rex was nowhere to be found. He had never strayed before, and we had no cheering theory to propound to the child to account for his conduct. Other theories we kept to ourselves, such as the possibility of a thief having enticed Rex away, or that he had followed a hare into preserved ground and had got into a trap, or even had been shot. A new keeper on one of the neighbouring estates had been heard to vow extermination to any dog that he caught trespassing. No one allowed Rose to hear conjectures of this kind, but we all rather obviously shared her anxiety, and she was able to see through our forced airs of assurance. The hours went on, and still no Rex. Rose’s bed-time came and was long passed, but she would not consent to leave the hall door. There she stood, now and then calling, with the dish of food beside her. Hannah was furious, but to no purpose. Dogs to her were just dogs—four-footed creatures, useful to bark at night and protect the house, but given to importing mud into houses and not blameless as to the encouragement of fleas. Many a conflict have we had, she and I, over Rex’s charter to roam where he would, upstairs or down. On this occasion we came to a wider cleavage than ever, for Hannah (and, from her point of view, very rightly) wished Rose to go to bed, whereas I, although conscious that as a habit such vigils would be very bad for her, was inclined to accede to her tearful wishes and allow her on this occasion to wait up. Such evidences of solicitude for her dog were very gratifying. “I can’t go to bed, Dombeen, until I know,” she said, and she had my sympathy. “You shall stay up,” I assured her, “till—till—” “Till he comes back?” she supplied eagerly. “No, I couldn’t promise that,” I said. “You see, he may have been found wandering by some one who has tied him up till the morning and will then bring him home. And you couldn’t wait up till then, could you?” “Yes I could,” said Rose. “Well even if you could, I couldn’t let you,” I said. “But you shall stay up till—till midnight, say. Till the clock strikes twelve.”