This hypothesis had some plausibility.  No other creature would be so likely to trouble a person who had an antipathy to it.  Dogs are very apt to make the acquaintance of strangers, in a free and easy way.  They are met with everywhere,—­in one’s daily walk, at the thresholds of the doors one enters, in the gentleman’s library, on the rug of my lady’s sitting-room and on the cushion of her carriage.  It is true that there are few persons who have an instinctive repugnance to this “friend of man.”  But what if this so-called antipathy were only a fear, a terror, which borrowed the less unmanly name?  It was a fair question, if, indeed, the curiosity of the public had a right to ask any questions at all about a harmless individual who gave no offence, and seemed entitled to the right of choosing his way of living to suit himself, without being submitted to espionage.

There was no positive evidence bearing on the point as yet.  But one of the village people had a large Newfoundland dog, of a very sociable disposition, with which he determined to test the question.  He watched for the time when Maurice should leave his house for the woods or the lake, and started with his dog to meet him.  The animal walked up to the stranger in a very sociable fashion, and began making his acquaintance, after the usual manner of well-bred dogs; that is, with the courtesies and blandishments by which the canine Chesterfield is distinguished from the ill-conditioned cur.  Maurice patted him in a friendly way, and spoke to him as one who was used to the fellowship of such companions.  That idle question and foolish story were disposed of, therefore, and some other solution must be found, if possible.

A much more common antipathy is that which is entertained with regard to cats.  This has never been explained.  It is not mere aversion to the look of the creature, or to any sensible quality known to the common observer.  The cat is pleasing in aspect, graceful in movement, nice in personal habits, and of amiable disposition.  No cause of offence is obvious, and yet there are many persons who cannot abide the presence of the most innocent little kitten.  They can tell, in some mysterious way, that there is a cat in the room when they can neither see nor hear the creature.  Whether it is an electrical or quasi-magnetic phenomenon, or whatever it may be, of the fact of this strange influence there are too many well-authenticated instances to allow its being questioned.  But suppose Maurice Kirkwood to be the subject of this antipathy in its extremest degree, it would in no manner account for the isolation to which he had condemned himself.  He might shun the firesides of the old women whose tabbies were purring by their footstools, but these worthy dames do not make up the whole population.