"He'll get over it presently," prophesied the Master, to soothe
his wife's worry.
"Perhaps so," returned the Mistress. "Or perhaps not. Remember
he's a collie, and not just a human."
On the third day, Lad's systematic quartering of the Place
brought him to the tiny new mound, far beyond the stables. Twice,
he circled it. Then he lay down, very close beside it; his mighty
head athwart the ridge of upflung sod.
There,--having seen him from a distance,--the Master came across
to speak to him. But at sight of the man, the collie got up from
his resting place and moved furtively away.
Time after time, during the next week, the Master or the Mistress
found him lying there. And always, at their approach, he would
get up and depart. Nor did he go direct to the mound, on these
pilgrimages; but by devious paths; as though trying to shake off
possible pursuit. No longer did he spend the nights, as from
puppyhood, in his beloved "cave" under the piano in the music
room. On one pretext or another, he would manage to slip out of
the house, during the evening.
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