A Dog in Exile. 63 



Of course, after this, I could have nothing more 

 to do with the retriever, further than patting him 

 on the head, and speaking a kind word to him when- 

 ever he chanced to be in my way. But this was 

 not enough for old Major. He was a sporting dog, 

 full of energy, and with undiminished faith in his 

 own powers, in spite of his years, and when a sports- 

 man had come to the house, and had deliberately 

 singled him out for friendly notice, he could not and 

 would not believe that it was to go no further. 

 Day after day he clung to the delusion that he was 

 to accompany me in my walks and little shooting 

 excursions in the neighbourhood ; and every time I 

 took down a gun he would rush forward from his 

 post by- the door with so many demonstrations of 

 joy, and with such imploring looks and gestures, 

 that I found it very hard to rebuke him. It was 

 sad to have him standing there, first cocking up one 

 ear, then the other, striving to pierce the baffling 

 mists that intervened between his poor purblind 

 eyes and my face, to find some sign of relenting in 

 it. 



It was evident that old Major was not happy, in 

 spite of all he had to make him so : although he 

 was well fed and fat, and treated with the greatest 

 kindness by every one on the place, and although 

 all the other dogs about the house looked up to him 

 with that instinctive respect they always accord to 

 the oldest, or strongest, or most domineering mem- 

 ber, his heart was restless and dissatisfied. He could 

 not endure an inactive life. There was, in fact, only 



