Twice, in gray dawn, the Master
found him crouched beside the mound, where, sleepless, he had
lain all night.
The Mistress and the Master grew seriously troubled over their
collie chum's continued grief. They thought, more than once, of
sending him away to boarding kennels or to some friend, for a
month or two; to remove him from the surroundings which made him
so wretched. Oddly enough, his heartbreak struck neither of them
as absurd.
They had made a long study of collie nature in all its million
queer and half-human phases. They knew, too, that a grieving dog
is upheld by none of the supports of Faith nor of Philosophy; and
that he lacks the wisdom which teaches the wondrous anaesthetic
powers of Time. A sorrowing dog sorrows without hope.
Nor did Lad's misery seem ridiculous to the Place's many kindly
neighbors; with whom the great dog was a favorite and who were
righteously indignant over the killing of Lady.
Then in a single minute came the cure.
On Labor Day afternoon, the finals in a local tennis tournament
were to be played at the mile distant country club.
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