‘What could it be, William?’ asked Stephen anxiously.

‘How should I know?’ said the man, with some reluctance.  ’Only, lad, I did hear a gun go off; and I never heard Snip bark again, though I listened for him.  Stephen, Stephen, dunna thee go so mad like!’

But it was no use shouting after Stephen, as he ran frantically up the hill.  Snip was always basking lazily in the sunshine under the hedge of the paddock, at the very point where he could catch the first sight of his young master, after which there was no more idleness or stillness in him.  Stephen could hardly breathe when he found that Snip was not at the usual place to greet him; but before he reached his home he saw it—­the dead body of his own poor Snip—­hung on the post of the wicket through which he had to pass.  He flew to the place; he tore his own hands with the nails that were driven through Snip’s feet; and then, without a thought of his grandfather or of his own hunger, he bore away the dead dog in his arms, and wandered far out of sight or sound of the hateful, cruel world, into one of the most solitary plains upon the uplands.

Any one passing by might have thought that Stephen was fast asleep in the last slanting rays of the sun, which shone upon him there some time after the evening shadows had fallen upon Botfield; but a frenzy of passion, too strong for any words, had felled him to the ground, where he lay beside Snip.  The gamekeeper, who had so many dogs that he did not care for any one of them in particular, had killed this one creature that was dearer to him than anything in the world, except little Nan, and grandfather, and Martha.  And Snip was dead, without remedy; no power on earth could bring back the departed life.  Oh, if he could only punish the villain who had shot his poor faithful dog!  But he was nothing but a poor boy, very poor, and very helpless and friendless, and people would only laugh at his trouble.  All the world was against him, and he could do nothing to revenge himself, but to hate everybody!

‘Why, lad! why, Stephen! what ails thee?’ said Black Thompson’s voice, close behind him.  ’Eh! who’s gone and shot Snip?  That rascal Jones, I’ll go bail!  Is he quite dead, Stephen?  Stand up, lad, and let’s give a look at him.’

The boy rose, and faced Black Thompson and his comrade with eyes that were bloodshot, though he had not shed a tear, and with lips almost bitten through by his angry teeth.  Both the men handled the dog gently and carefully, but, after a moment’s inspection, Thompson laid it down again on the turf.

‘It’s a shame!’ he cried, with an oath that sounded pleasantly in Stephen’s ears; ’it was one of the best little dogs about.  I’d take my vengeance on him for this.  In thy place, I couldn’t sleep till I’d done something.’

‘Ay!’ said Stephen, with flashing eyes; ’I know where he’s keeping a covey of birds up against game day—­nineteen of them.  I’ve seen them every day, and I could go to the place in the dark.’