Lad was old--very, very old. He had passed his sixteenth birthday. For a collie, sixteen is as old as is ninety-five for a human.
The great dog's life had been as beautiful as himself. And now, in the late twilight of his years, Time's hand rested on him as lovingly as did the Mistress's. He had few of the distressing features of age.
True; his hearing was duller than of yore. The magnificent body's lines were blurred with flesh. The classic muzzle was snow white;as were the lashes and eyebrows. And the once mighty muscles were stiff and unwieldy. Increasing feebleness crept over him, making exercise a burden and any sudden motion a pain. The once trumpeting bark was a hollow echo of itself.
But the deep-set dark eyes, with a soul looking out of them, were as clear as ever. The uncannily wise brain had lost not an atom of its power. The glorious mahogany-and-snow coat was still abundant. The fearlessly gay spirit and loyal heart were undimmed by age.
Laddie resented angrily his new limitations. From time to time he would forget them; and would set off at a run in the wake of Bruce and Wolf, when the sound of a stranger's approach made them gallop up the driveway to investigate. But always; after the first few stiff bounds, he would come to a panting halt and turn back wearily to his resting place in the veranda's coolest corner; as indignant over his own weakness, as he would have been at fetters which impeded his limbs.
He was more and more sensitive about this awkward feebleness of his. And he sought to mask it; in ways that seemed infinitely pathetic to the two humans who loved him. For instance, one of his favorite romps in bygone days had been to throw himself down in front of the Mistress and pretend to bite her little feet;growling terrifically as he did it. Twice of late, as he had been walking at her side, his footing had slipped or he had lost his balance, and had tumbled headlong Instantly, both times, he had begun to growl and had bitten in mock fury at the Mistress's foot. By this pitiful ruse he strove to make her believe that his fall had been purposeful and a part of the olden game.
But worst of all he missed the long walks on which, from puppyhood, he had always accompanied the Mistress and the Master.
Unknown to the old dog, these walks had been shortened, mercifully, and slowed down, to accommodate themselves to Lad's waning strength: But the time came when even a half-mile, at snail-pace, over a smooth road, was too much for his wind and endurance.
Nowadays, when they were going for a walk, Lad was first lured into the house and left there. The ruse did not fool him, any more than it would have deceived a grown man. And his feelings were cruelly hurt at every instance of this seeming defection on the part of his two worshiped human chums.
"He still enjoys life," mused the Master, one day in late summer, as he and the Mistress sat on the veranda, with Lad asleep at their feet. "And he can still get about a bit. His appetite is good, and he drowses happily for a good deal of the day; and the car-rides are still as much fun for him as ever they were. But when the time comes--and he's breaking fast, these past few months--when the time comes that life is a misery to him--""I know," interposed the Mistress, her voice not quite steady. "Iknow. Do you suppose I haven't been thinking about it, on the hot nights when I couldn't sleep? But, when the time comes--when it comes--you'll--you'll do it, yourself, won't you?""Yes," promised the Master, miserably. "No one else shall. I'd rather cut off one of my own hands, though. I'VE been doing a bit of thinking, too--at night. It's nobody's job but mine. Laddie would rather have it that way, I know. And, by a bullet. He's a gallant old soldier. And that is the way for him to go. Now, for the Lord's sake, let's talk about something else! A man or woman is a fool to care that way about any mere dog. I--""But Lad isn't a 'mere' dog," contradicted the Mistress, stooping to pet the collie's classic head as it lay across her foot.
"He's--he's Laddie."
The sound of his name pierced the sleep mists and brought the dog to wakefulness. He raised his head inquiringly toward the Mistress, and his plumed tail began to thump the floor. The Mistress patted him again; and spoke a word or two. Lad prepared to drowse once more. Then, to his dulled ears came the padding of little bare feet on the grass. And he glanced up again, this time in eager interest.
Across the lawn from the orchard came trotting a child; carrying a basket of peaches toward the kitchen. The youngster wore but a single garment, a shapeless calico dress that fell scarcely to her knees. She was Sonya, the seven-year-old daughter of one of the Place's extra workmen, a Slav named Ruloff who lived in the mile-distant village, across the lake.
Ruloff, following the custom of his peasant ancestors, put his whole family to work, from the time its members were old enough to toddle. And he urged them against the vice of laziness by means of an ever-ready fist, or a still readier toe or a harness strap--whichever of the trio of energy producers chanced to be handiest. In coming over to the Place, for a month's labor, during the harvest season, he brought along every day his youngest and most fragile offspring, Sonya. Under her father's directions and under his more drastic modes of encouragement, the little girl was of much help to him in his doily toil.
Twice, the Master had caught him punishing her for undue slowness in carrying out some duty too heavy for her frail strength. On both times he had stopped the brutal treatment. On the second, he had told Ruloff he would not only discharge him, but assist his departure from the Place with a taste of boot-toe medicine, if ever the Slav should lay a hand on the child again during his period of employment there. The Place's English superintendent had promised like treatment to the man, should he catch him ill treating Sonya.
