Alas! poor dog, he came to a sad end at last, and died in so wretched a way that the recollection of his death puts a dark eclipse upon the unhappy memory of his life.

[Illustration:  The old man and his dog were constant companions.]

Comfort to his master?  You may well say that; and no man ever loved his child more fondly than the old beggar loved his dog.  And well he might, for he was his companion by day, his guard by night, and the means by which he eked out the sometime scant living that the fickle charity of the world flung to him.  How often have I seen the old man take him in his arms and hug him to his breast, that had, I fancy, so many bitter memories in it; and how often have I seen the dog lap with gentle and caressing tongue the tears as they rolled down the furrowed cheeks, when the fountain of grief within was stirred by the angel of recollection.  But it was from the sympathy of his faithful and loving companion, and not from the moving of the bitter waters, that his aching heart found consolation.

Tell you about the man?  Why, certainly; but there isn’t much to tell.  You see, no one knew much of him, for he seldom if ever spoke of himself.  I suppose I knew him better than anyone on his beat here, for I fell in love with his dog, and with himself, too, for that matter, for, in the first place, he was old, and whoever saw a white head and didn’t love it, and whoever looked upon a wrinkled face and didn’t wish to kiss it, if it was peaceful, and the old man’s head was as white as snow is, and the peacefulness of a sleeping child hovered over the sadness of his face, albeit the shadow of a sorrowful past lay darkly resting upon it.  But though I saw much of him as he swung around on his annual visit, and though he looked upon me as his friend—­as, indeed, I was, and proved myself to be such more than once, thank God!—­still he never offered to tell me his history, and I certainly never questioned him about it.  For life is a secret thing, and each man holds the key to his own; and only once, if at all, may it be opened, and even then only the Father is gentle and forgiving enough to look upon the wheat and the chaff which we in our grief or joy keep closely locked from human eyes.

No, I knew little of him; but occasionally, sitting by the fire here when a storm was heavy outside, for the coming of storms was always the prelude of these moods in him, he would begin to mutter to himself, and to talk to his dog of days long gone; of men and women he had once hated or loved, or who loved or hated him—­God knows which—­and of deeds he had once done, but which were now deeply buried under the years.

Perhaps he did not know that he was talking.  Perhaps his soul, busy with the past, forgot the motion of the lips and ceased to keep its watch over the movements of that member which, unless ceaselessly guarded, betrays us all so often.  What did he mutter about?  Well, the man is dead and gone, and what little there is to tell cannot pain him now.  Death makes us indifferent to disclosure, and little do we care what the world says about us when we lie sleeping in the grave, I ween.  Yes, the man is dead and gone this many a year; God rest his soul, and I heartily hope he has found riches and rest and his dog ere now, as I feel certain he has, and what little I know can do no harm, if told, to any.