A great master would not be above painting a small child or a big dog separately--why should he be above putting them both in the same picture? It would be too obvious, I suppose--like a melody by Mozart, or Handel's "Harmonious Blacksmith," or Schubert's Serenade, and other catchpenny tunes of the same description. _I_ was also very intimate with Chucker-out, who made more of me than he even did of his master. One night I got very late to Marsfield by the last train, and, letting myself in with my key, I found Chucker-out waiting for me in the hall, and apparently in a very anxious frame of mind, and extremely demonstrative, wanting to say something more than usual--to confide a trouble, to confess! We went up into the big music-room, which was still lighted, and lay on a couch together; he, with his head on my knees, whimpering softly as I smoked and read a paper. Presently Leah came in and said: "Such an unfortunate thing happened; Marty and Chucker-out were playing on the slope, and he knocked her down and sprained her knee." As soon as Chucker-out heard Marty's name he sat up and whined piteously, and pawed me down with great violence; pawed three buttons off my waistcoat and broke my watch-chain--couldn't be comforted; the misadventure had been preying on his mind for hours. I give this subject to Mr. Briton Riviere, who can paint both dogs and children, and everything else he likes. I will sit for him myself, if he wishes, and as a Catholic priest! He might call it a confession--and an absolution! or, "The Secrets of the Confessional." The good dog became more careful in future, and restrained his exuberance even going down-stairs with Marty on the way to a ramble in the woods, which excited him more than anything; if he came down-stairs with anybody else, the violence of his joy was such that one had to hold on by the banisters. He was a dear, good beast, and a splendid body-guard for Marty in her solitary woodland rambles--never left her side for a second. I have often watched him from a distance, unbeknown to both; he was proud of his responsibility--almost fussy about it. I have been fond of many dogs, but never yet loved a dog as I loved big Chucker-out--or _Choucroûte_, as Coralie, the French maid, called him, to Fräulein Werner's annoyance (Choucroûte is French for sauerkraut); and I like to remember him in his splendid prime, guarding his sweet little mistress, whom I loved better than anything else on earth. She was to me a kind of pet Marjorie, and said such droll and touching things that I could almost fill a book with them. I kept a diary on purpose, and called it Martiana.