“Of what use to keep him?” she had asked me.

True!  Of what use to give even roof-shelter to a poor old human creature, maimed, broken, and useless for evermore?  After long years of faithful service, turn him out, cast him forth!  If he die of neglect, starvation, and ill-usage, what matter?—­he is a worn-out tool, his day is done—­let him perish.  I would not plead for him—­ why should I?  I had made my own plans for his comfort—­plans shortly to be carried out; and in the mean time Assunta nursed him tenderly as he lay speechless, with no more strength than a year-old baby, and only a bewildered pain in his upturned, lack-luster eyes.  One incident occurred during these last days of my vengeance that struck a sharp pain to my heart, together with a sense of the bitterest anger.  I had gone up to the villa somewhat early in the morning, and on crossing the lawn I saw a dark form stretched motionless on one of the paths that led directly up to the house.  I went to examine it, and started back in horror—­it was my dog Wyvis shot dead.  His silky black head and forepaws were dabbled in blood—­his honest brown eyes were glazed with the film of his dying agonies.  Sickened and infuriated at the sight, I called to a gardener who was trimming the shrubbery.

“Who has done this?” I demanded.

The man looked pityingly at the poor bleeding remains, and said, in a low voice: 

“It was madama’s order, signor.  The dog bit her yesterday; we shot him at daybreak.”

I stooped to caress the faithful animal’s body, and as I stroked the silky coat my eyes were dim with tears.

“How did it happen?” I asked in smothered accents.  “Was your lady hurt?”

The gardener shrugged his shoulders and sighed.

“Ma!—­no!  But he tore the lace on her dress with his teeth and grazed her hand.  It was little, but enough.  He will bite no more—­ povera bestia!”

I gave the fellow five francs.

“I liked the dog,” I said briefly, “he was a faithful creature.  Bury him decently under that tree,” and I pointed to the giant cypress on the lawn, “and take this money for your trouble.”

He looked surprised but grateful, and promised to do my bidding.  Once more sorrowfully caressing the fallen head of perhaps the truest friend I ever possessed, I strode hastily into the house, and met Nina coming out of her morning-room, clad in one of her graceful trailing garments, in which soft lavender hues were blended like the shaded colors of late and early violets.

“So Wyvis has been shot?” I said, abruptly.

She gave a slight shudder.

“Oh, yes; is it not sad?  But I was compelled to have it done.  Yesterday I went past his kennel within reach of his chain, and he sprung furiously at me for no reason at all.  See!” And holding up her small hand she showed me three trifling marks in the delicate flesh.  “I felt that you would be so unhappy if you thought I kept a dog that was at all dangerous, so I determined to get rid of him.  It is always painful to have a favorite animal killed; but really Wyvis belonged to my poor husband, and I think he has never been quite safe since his master’s death, and now Giacomo is ill—­”