A strange transformation had come over him. The best way I can describe it is to say that the glowing inward fire which always had seemed to shine through him—even to the flaming bright mass of coat—was gone. He was all at once old and sedate and massive; a dog of elderly dignity—a dignity oddly majestic. The mischief imp had fled from his eyes; the sheen and sunlight had vanished from his coat. He had ceased to be Treve. I sent in a rush for the nearest good vet. The doctor examined the invalid with all the skilled attention due a dog whose cash value runs into four figures. Then he gave verdict. It was the heart;—the heart that had been flighty in puppyhood days, but which two competent vets had since pronounced as sound as the traditional bell. For a day longer the collie lived;—at least a gravely gentle and majestic collie lived in the marvellous body that had been Treve’s. He did not suffer—or so the doctor told us—and he was content to stay very close to me; his paw or his head on my foot. At last, stretching himself drowsily to sleep, he died. It seemed impossible that such a swirl of glad life and mischief and beauty could have been wiped out in twenty-four little hours. Not for our virtues nor for our general worthiness are we remembered wistfully by those who stay on. Not for our sterling qualities are we cruelly missed when missing is futile. Worthiness, in its death, does not leave behind it the grinding heartache that comes at memory of some lovably naughty or mischievous or delightfully perverse trait. Treve’s entertaining badnesses had woven themselves into the very life of the Place. Their passing left a keen hurt. The more so because, under them, lay bedrock of staunch loyalty and gentleness. I have not the skill to paint our eccentrically lovable chum’s word picture, except in this clumsily written sketch. If I were to attempt to make a whole book of him, the result would be a daub. But I have tried at least to make his _name_ remembered by a few readers; by giving it to the hero of the “Treve” collection of stories. Perhaps some one, reading, may like the name, even if not the stories, and may call his or her next collie, “Treve”; in memory of a gallant dog that was dear to Sunnybank. We buried him in the woods, near the house, here. A granite boulder serves as his headstone. Alongside that boulder, a few days ago, we buried the Mistress’s hero collie, Wolf; close to his old-time playmate, Treve. Perhaps you may care to hear a word or two of Wolf’s plucky death. Some of you have read his adventures in my other dog stories. More of you read of his passing. For nearly every newspaper in America printed a long account of it. It is an account worth reading and rereading; as is every tale of clean courage. I am going to quote part of the finely-written story that appeared in the _New York Times_ of June 28, 1923; a story far beyond power of mine to improve on or to equal: