spare neither man nor beast. Otherwise, those who knew him well,
used to say he had a good heart, when he was neither drunk, nor
angry, nor in any way vexed. He had altered much when I came to know
him.

One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little
success, I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black
humour accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded,
sportsman-like, when little Mignon crossed his path, just as he
turned out of the wood by Bridget's cottage. Partly for wantonness,
partly to vent his spleen upon some living creature. Mr. Gisborne
took his gun, and fired--he had better have never fired gun again,
than aimed that unlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at the creature's
sudden cry, Bridget came out, and saw at a glance what had been done.
She took Mignon up in her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the
poor dog looked at her with his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his
tail and lick her hand, all covered with blood. Mr. Gisborne spoke
in a kind of sullen penitence:

"You should have kept the dog out of my way--a little poaching
varmint."

At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in
her arms--her lost Mary's dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her
for years. She walked right into Mr. Gisborne's path, and fixed his
unwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye.

"Those never throve that did me harm," said she. "I'm alone in the
world, and helpless; the more do the saints in heaven hear my
prayers. Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on