As the horse swung along in his perfect gait, the great dog making playful leaps and feinted snaps at his beautiful muzzle with a dog’s derisive smile and sense of humor, and if any one doubts that dogs have this quality they simply don’t know the animal, the girl sang at the top of her voice.

They covered the ground with incredible swiftness and presently the lane grew broader, giving evidence of more traffic where a wood road crossed it at right angles.  Just a little beyond this point an old gentleman appeared in sight.  He was walking with his hands clasped behind him and his head bent to examine every foot of the roadway.  Evidently he was too absorbed to be aware of the trio bearing down upon him.  He wore the clerical garb of the Church of England, and his face would have attracted attention in any part of the world, it was so pure, so refined, so like a cameo in its delicacy of outline, and the skin held the wonderful softness and clearness we sometimes see in old age.  He must have been over seventy.

Just then he became aware of the colt’s light hoofbeats and looked up.  He was tall and slight but very erect, and his face lighted up with a smile absolutely illuminating as he recognized his approaching friends.

The girl bent forward to say: 

“One bell, Shashai.”  Whereupon her mount slackened his gait to the gentlest amble, but the dog went bounding on to greet the newcomer.  First she dropped down at his feet, burying her nose in her forepaws as though to make obeisance, but at his words: 

“Ah, Tzaritza!  Good Tzaritza, welcome!” she instantly sprang up, rested her forepaws upon his shoulders, and looked into his face with the most limpid pair of eyes ever seen; eyes filled with something deeper than human love can ever summon to human eyes, for those have human speech to supplement their appeal.

“Tzaritza.  Dear, faithful Tzaritza,” said the old man in the tenderest tone as he caressed the magnificent, silky head now nestling against his face as a child’s might have nestled.  “Good dog.  Good dog.  But here are Peggy and Shashai.  My little girl, warm greetings,” he cried as Shashai came to an instant statue-like standstill at Peggy’s one word, “Halt!” and she slid from his back, braced at “attention” and saluted in all gravity, the clergyman returning the salute with much dignity.  Then in an instant the martial attitude and air were discarded and springing forward the girl slipped to his side, caught one hand and by a quick, graceful motion circled his arm about her waist and laid her head upon his shoulder just where Tzaritza’s had but a moment before rested, her face alight with affection as she exclaimed: 

“To meet you ’way, ’way out here, Compadre!”

“‘Far from the madding crowd,’ Filiola.  Five miles to the good for these old legs of seventy-four summers.  They have served me well.  I have no fault to find with them.  They are stanch friends and have carried me many a mile.  But you, my child?  You and Tzaritza and Shashai?  Come hither, my beauty,” and the free hand was extended to the colt which instantly advanced for the proffered caress.