disturbed him less than one against the life of his dog. But whether he
slept or not, the hours of the night wheeled along their dark courses
without stopping, and speedily brought the dreaded morning. I know not
when he died, or where, but well I know that the memory of that
dreadful morning and the woe that came to him on it haunted him to the
close of his life, and embittered the last hours of it.

The morning came as all mornings, whether they bring joy or grief to us,
do come. The threat the fellow had uttered against his dog the evening
before had naturally disturbed him and the old man was nervous and
excited, but he managed to cook his frugal breakfast and eat it with his
companion. I can well imagine his thoughts and his worriment. "Law! what
law?" I can hear him say. "I've broken no law. I've only loved and been
loved by my dog. That's not wicked, surely. He said he'd come again, and
if I didn't have the money ready. Money! what money? He knows I've no
money. Tax! what tax? Do they tax a man's heart in this city? Can't a
man love anything here unless he's rich? Kill my dog! I don't believe
it. There isn't a man on the earth wicked enough to kill an old man's
dog, an old man's harmless dog; no, he didn't, he couldn't mean that! he
just said it to scare me. Yes, yes, I see now; he'd been drinking and he
said it just to scare me." Thus, as I fancy, the poor old man sat
muttering to himself, listening with dread to every passing step,
listening and muttering to himself, while his old heart, quaked in his
bosom, and his soul, which had so little to cheer it, as it journeyed
along its lonely path, was sorely tried and disquieted within him.

The clock in a neighboring steeple was striking the ninth hour, and the
old man paused in his muttering and sat counting the strokes as the iron
tongue pealed them forth; counting them in his fear as if each stroke
was a knell, and so indeed to him it was, and many of the chimes we