who have never been trained to hunt, go wild over the rabbits. They have
inherited the taste."

"Trained to hunt," said Tattine thoughtfully. "Do you mean that men just went
to work to teach them to be so cruel?"

"Well, I suppose in a way setters are natural hunters, Tattine, but then their
training has doubtless a great deal to do with it, but I want to tell you
something that I think will give you just a grain of comfort. I read the other
day that Sir John Franklin, the great Arctic explorer, who almost lost his
life in being attacked by some huge animal--it must have been a bear, I
think--says that the animal when he first gets you in his teeth gives you such
a shake that it paralyzes your nerves--this is, it benumbs all your feelings,
so, that, strange as it may seem, you really do not suffer. So let us hope
that it was that way with this little rabbit."

"But there's a little blood here on one side, Mamma."

"That doesn't always prove suffering, either, Tattine. Soldiers are sometimes
wounded without ever knowing it until they see a little sign of blood
somewhere."

Tattine listened attentively to all this, and was in a measure comforted. It
seemed that Mamma was still able to better things, even though not able to set
everything perfectly right. "Now," Tattine said,--with a little sigh of
relief, "I think I will try and see what I can do for Bunny. Perhaps he would
first like a drink," so downstairs she went, and putting some milk in a
shallow tea-cup, she dipped Bunny's nose in it, and it seemed to her as though
he did take a little of it. Then she trudged up to the garret for a box, and,
putting a layer of cotton-batting in the bottom, laid Bunny in one corner.