Any one passing by might have thought that Stephen was fast asleep in the
last slanting rays of the sun, which shone upon him there some time after
the evening shadows had fallen upon Botfield; but a frenzy of passion,
too strong for any words, had felled him to the ground, where he lay
beside Snip. The gamekeeper, who had so many dogs that he did not care
for any one of them in particular, had killed this one creature that was
dearer to him than anything in the world, except little Nan, and
grandfather, and Martha. And Snip was dead, without remedy; no power on
earth could bring back the departed life. Oh, if he could only punish the
villain who had shot his poor faithful dog! But he was nothing but a poor
boy, very poor, and very helpless and friendless, and people would only
laugh at his trouble. All the world was against him, and he could do
nothing to revenge himself, but to hate everybody!

'Why, lad! why, Stephen! what ails thee?' said Black Thompson's voice,
close behind him. 'Eh! who's gone and shot Snip? That rascal Jones, I'll
go bail! Is he quite dead, Stephen? Stand up, lad, and let's give a look
at him.'

The boy rose, and faced Black Thompson and his comrade with eyes that
were bloodshot, though he had not shed a tear, and with lips almost
bitten through by his angry teeth. Both the men handled the dog gently
and carefully, but, after a moment's inspection, Thompson laid it down
again on the turf.

'It's a shame!' he cried, with an oath that sounded pleasantly in
Stephen's ears; 'it was one of the best little dogs about. I'd take my
vengeance on him for this. In thy place, I couldn't sleep till I'd done
something.'