A DOG IN EXILE 65 



bestowed on him, and we started homeward in 

 a happy frame of mind, each feeling well pleased 

 with the other and himself. 



That evening as I sat by the fire greatly enjoy- 

 ing my after-dinner coffee, and a pipe of the 

 strongest cavendish, I related the day's adven- 

 tures, and then for the first time heard from my 

 host something of Major's antecedents and re- 

 markable history. 



He was a Scotch dog by birth, and had formerly 

 belonged to the Earl of Zetland, and as he proved 

 to be an exceptionally clever and good-looking 

 young dog, he was for a time thought much of; 

 but there was a drop of black blood in Major's 

 heart, and in a moment of temptation it led him 

 into courses for which he was finally condemned 

 to an ignominious death; he escaped to become a 

 pioneer of civilization in the wilderness, and to 

 show even in old age and when his sight had 

 failed him, of what stuff he was made. Killing 

 sheep was his crime; he had hunted the swift- 

 footed cheviots and black-faces on the hills and 

 moors; he had tasted their blood and had made 

 the discovery that it was sweet, and the ancient 

 wild dog instinct was hot in his heart. The new 

 joy possessed his whole being, and in a moment 

 swept away every restraint. The savage life was 

 the only real life after all, and what cared Major 

 about the greatest happiness for the greatest 

 number, and new fangled notions about the divi- 

 sion of labor, in which so mean a part was as- 



