94 THE GARDEN OF A 



blissfully content at my feet, occasionally giving my 

 shoes a furtive and affectionate lick as he used to 

 the birds he retrieved. 



Pat, the wire-haired terrier, was a six-weeks 

 puppy when I went away. He had been given 

 to father by a dog breeder in the next village, in 

 an outburst of gratitude for a little bit of deft 

 surgery that he had done in the goodness of his 

 heart for a pet dog which the man loved with the 

 intensity that some rough natures feel for dumb 

 animals. There was no veterinary surgeon in the 

 neighbourhood, and father was always willing to 

 aid animals where his knowledge was applicable, re- 

 gardless of professional criticism, thcugh he would 

 not accept fees for such services. 



The natural result had been that there was never 

 a dearth of animals about the place. I have always 

 counted from one to half a dozen dogs at my 

 heels since babyhood, and it was invariably a small 

 dog with a blanket pinned on shawl fashion that 

 rode in my little carriage instead of the orthodox 

 doll. 



It was not to be expected that Pat should re- 

 member me, and in truth he did not. Bluff, how- 

 ever, had evidently told him all the facts of the 

 case and impressed him in my favour ; for he is now 



