lovingly laid on the collie's silken head, he mumbled:

"No, Chum, you can't come along. Back, boy! Stay HERE!"

Lowering at Gault, he added:

"He ain't never been hit, nor yet swore at. An' he don't need to
be. Treat him nice, like he's used to bein' treated. An' don't
get sore on him if he mopes fer me, jes' at fust. Because he's
sure to. Dogs ain't like folks. They got hearts. Folks has only
got souls. I guess dogs has the best of it, at that."

Ferris swung open the door and stumbled out, not trusting himself
for a backward glance at the wistfully grieved dog he had left
behind.

Lurchingly he made off, across the lawn and out through the
wicket. He was numb and sick. He moved mechanically and with no
conscious power of thought or of locomotion.

Out in the highroad, a homing instinct guided his leaden feet in
the direction of Hampton. And he plodded dazedly the
interminable four miles that separated him from his desolate
farm.

As he turned in at his own gate, he was aware of a poignant dread
that pierced his numbness. And he knew it for a dread of entering
the house and of finding no one to welcome him. Setting his teeth
he went forward, unlocked the door and stamped into the silent
kitchen.