"But I am sorry he
didn't hear."
Was she very sorry?
She went back into her cozy, fire-lighted sewing-room, and thought no
more of the beggar-boy. And the watchdog, having barked his well-bred,
formal bark, without undue heat,--like a dog that knew the world, and
had acquired the tone of society,--stood a minute, important,
contemplating the drizzle from the door of his kennel, out of which he
had not deigned to step, then stretched himself once more on his straw,
gave a sigh of repose, and curled himself up, with his nose to the air,
in an attitude of canine enjoyment, in which it was to be hoped no
inconsiderate vagabond would again disturb him.
As for Fessenden's--How shall we name him? Somehow, it goes against the
grain to call any person a fool. Though we may forget the Scriptural
warning, still charity remembers that he is our brother. Suppose,
therefore, we stop at the possessive case, and call him simply
Fessenden's?
As for Fessenden's, then, he was less fortunate than the Judge's
mastiff. He had no dry straw, not even a kennel to crouch in. And the
fields were uninviting; and to die was not so pleasant.
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