Back up the drive she tore, back to the shadowing trees, back to the piteous little blot in the shadow that was the only thing her world contained in that hour of anguish.

When they reached her she was sunk on the ground beside her favourite, crying his name, while he, whimpering, strove to drag his mangled body into her lap.  She tried to lift him, but he yelped so terribly at her touch that she was forced to let him lie.

“Oh, Cinders, Cinders!” she cried, in an agony.  “My little darling, what shall I do?”

Someone stooped over her; a quiet hand lay upon her shoulder.  “Chris,” it was her husband’s voice, very grave and tender, “come away, dear.  You can’t do anything.  The poor little chap is past our help.”

She lifted a dazed face, staring uncomprehendingly.

“Come away,” he repeated.

But when he tried to raise her she resisted him.  “And leave him like this?  No, never, never!  Oh, Trevor, look—­look!  He is dying!  Can’t we do something—­anything?  Oh, he never cried like that before!”

“My dear, there is nothing that you can do.”  Very gently he made answer.  “He can’t possibly live.  There is only one thing to be done, and that is to put him out of his pain as quickly as possible.  But I can’t do it with you here.  So come away, dear!  It’s the kindest—­in fact, it’s the only—­thing you can do.”

“Are you going to—­kill him?” gasped Chris in horror.

He nodded, with compressed lips.  “There is no alternative.  We can’t let him suffer like this.”

“Oh no, no, no!” Chris cried.

She would have thrown her arms about her darling, but he stopped her.  He caught her wrists and held her back.

“Chris, you must not!  When animals are hurt they will bite without knowing what they are doing.  Chris, do you hear me?  You must go.”

But she would not.  “Do you think I would leave him now—­when he wants me most?  And as if he would bite me—­Cinders—­Cinders—­who never even growled at me!”

She bent over him again, beside herself with grief.  Cinders, in the midst of his pain, tried gently to wag his tail.  His brown eyes, faithful, appealing, full of love, gazed up at her.  He had never seen his mistress in such trouble before, and the instinct to comfort her urged him even then, in the midst of his own.  Again he made piteous efforts to crawl into her arms, but again he failed, and fell back, whimpering.

Chris covered her face.  It was more than she could bear, and yet she could not—­could not—­leave him.

For a space that might have been minutes or only seconds she was left alone, tortured but impotent.  A dreadful darkness had fallen upon her, a numbness in which Cinders, suffering and slowly dying, was the only reality.

Then again she became conscious of another presence.  A quick hand touched her.  A soft voice spoke.

“Ah, the poor Cinders!  And he lives yet! Cherie, we will be kind to him, yes?  We cannot make him live, but we will let him die quick—­quick, so that he suffer no more.  That is kind, that is merciful, n’est-ce-pas?”