us than the other.  For to be a Christian, as Tolstoy understood the word—­and no one else in our time has had logic and love of truth enough to give it coherent meaning—­is (to be quite sincere) not suited to men of Western blood.  Whereas—­to be a gentleman!  It is a far cry, but perhaps it can be done.  In him, at all events, there was no pettiness, no meanness, and no cruelty, and though he fell below his ideal at times, this never altered the true look of his eyes, nor the simple loyalty in his soul.

But what a crowd of memories come back, bringing with them the perfume of fallen days!  What delights and glamour, what long hours of effort, discouragements, and secret fears did he not watch over—­our black familiar; and with the sight and scent and touch of him, deepen or assuage!  How many thousand walks did we not go together, so that we still turn to see if he is following at his padding gait, attentive to the invisible trails.  Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives.  Yet, if they find warmth therein, who would grudge them those years that they have so guarded?  Nothing else of us can they take to lie upon with outstretched paws and chin pressed to the ground; and, whatever they take, be sure they have deserved.

Do they know, as we do, that their time must come?  Yes, they know, at rare moments.  No other way can I interpret those pauses of his latter life, when, propped on his forefeet, he would sit for long minutes quite motionless—­his head drooped, utterly withdrawn; then turn those eyes of his and look at me.  That look said more plainly than all words could:  “Yes, I know that I must go!” If we have spirits that persist—­they have.  If we know after our departure, who we were they do.  No one, I think, who really longs for truth, can ever glibly say which it will be for dog and man persistence or extinction of our consciousness.  There is but one thing certain—­the childishness of fretting over that eternal question.  Whichever it be, it must be right, the only possible thing.  He felt that too, I know; but then, like his master, he was what is called a pessimist.

My companion tells me that, since he left us, he has once come back.  It was Old Year’s Night, and she was sad, when he came to her in visible shape of his black body, passing round the dining-table from the window-end, to his proper place beneath the table, at her feet.  She saw him quite clearly; she heard the padding tap-tap of his paws and very toe-nails; she felt his warmth brushing hard against the front of her skirt.  She thought then that he would settle down upon her feet, but something disturbed him, and he stood pausing, pressed against her, then moved out toward where I generally sit, but was not sitting that night.

She saw him stand there, as if considering; then at some sound or laugh, she became self-conscious, and slowly, very slowly, he was no longer there.  Had he some message, some counsel to give, something he would say, that last night of the last year of all those he had watched over us?  Will he come back again?