Meggie was a collie, a Highland collie, and a very beautiful one too. So much for her appearance. As for her moral qualities, it is sufficient to say that she was Frank’s dog – and I myself never yet saw the dog that did not borrow some of the mental qualities of the master, whose constant companion he was, especially if that master made much of him.

Frank loved his dog, and she loved but him. She liked but few. We were among the number of those she liked, but, strange creature that she was, she was barely civil to any one else in the world. She had one action which I never saw any other dog have, but it might have been taught her by Frank himself. She used to stand with her two paws on his knees, and lean her head sideways, or ear downwards, against his breast, just like a child who is being fondled, and thus she would remain for half an hour at a time, if not disturbed.

When my friend was ill in bed, poor loving Meggie would put her paws on the edge of it, and lay her head sideways on his breast, and thus remain for an hour. What a comfort this simple act of devotedness was to Frank!

When Frank died, Meggie fell into the best of hands, that of a lady who had a very great regard for her, and so was happy; but I know she never forgot her master.

She died only a few months ago. Her owner – she, may I say, who held her in trust – brought her over for me to look at one afternoon. I prescribed some gentle medicine for her, but told Miss W – she could only nurse her, that her illness was very serious. Meggie’s breath came very short and fast, and there was a pinched and anxious look about her face that spoke volumes to me. So when Miss W – was in the house I took the opportunity of going back to the carriage, and patting Frank’s dog’s head and whispering, “Good-bye.”

I cannot help confessing here, although many of my readers may have guessed it before, that I believe in immortality for the creatures, we are only too fond of calling “the lower animals.”

I have many great-souled men on my side in the matter of this belief, but if I stood alone therein, I would still hold fast thereto.

I have one firm supporter, at all events, in the person of my friend, the Rev. J.G. Wood⁸.

Nay, but my kindly poet Tupper, whose face I have never seen, but whose verses have given me many times and oft so much of real pleasure, have I not another supporter in you?

Aileen Aroon left us at last, dying of the fatal complaint that had so long lain dormant in her blood.

We had hopes of her recovery from the attack that carried her off until the very end. She herself was as patient as a lamb, and her gratitude was invariably expressed in her looks.

There are those reading these lines who may ask me why I did not forestall the inevitable. Might it not have been more merciful to have done so? These must seek for answer to such questions in my other books, or ask them of any one who has ever loved a faithful dog, and fully appreciated his fidelity, his affection, and his almost human amount of wisdom and sagacity.

The American Indians did use to adopt this method of forestalling the inevitable; in fact, they slew their nearest and dearest when they got old and feeble. Let who will follow their example, I could not if the animal had loved me and been my friend.

Theodore Nero lived for years afterwards, but I do not think he ever forgot Aileen Aroon – poor simple Sable.

I buried her in the garden, in a flower border close to the lawn, and I did not know until the grave was filled in that Nero had been watching the movements of my man and myself.

A fortnight after this I went to her grave to plant a rosebush there, Nero following; but when he saw me commencing to dig, a change that I had never seen the like of before passed over his face; it was wonder, blended with joy. He thought that I was about to bring her back to life and him.

In his last illness, poor Nero’s mattress and pillow were placed in a comfortable warm room. He seldom complained, though suffering at times; and whenever he did, either myself or my wife went and sat by him, and he was instantly content.

I had ridden down with the evening letters, and was back by nine o’clock. It was a night in bleak December, ’twixt Christmas and the New Year. When I went to the poor patient’s room I could see he was just going, and knelt beside him, after calling my wife. In the last short struggle he lifted his head, as if looking for some one. His eyes were turned towards me, though he could not see; and then his head dropped on my knee, and he was gone.

Down at the foot of our bird-haunted lawn, in a little grassy nook, where the nightingales are now singing at night, where the rhododendrons bloom, and the starry-petalled syringas perfume the air, is Nero’s grave – a little grassy mound, where the children always put flowers, and near it a broken, rough, wooden pillar, on which hangs a life-buoy, with the words – “Theodore Nero. Faithful to the end.”

8. Author of “Man and Beast.” Two volumes. Messrs Daldy and Isbister.