nothing." And it was at that very moment that he saw the Dog.




II


He had been staring down into the garden with a gaze half
abstracted, half speculative, listening with one ear to Mary, with
the other to the stir of the fire, the heavy beat of the clock and
the rustlings of Martha the canary.

He watched the snowy expanse of garden, the black gate, the road
beyond. A vast wave of pale grey light, the herald of approaching
dusk, swept the horizon, the snowy roofs, the streets, and Jeremy
felt some contact with the strange air, the mysterious omens that
the first snows of the winter spread about the land. He watched as
though he were waiting for something to happen.

The creature came up very slowly over the crest of Orange Street. No
one else was in sight, no cart, no horse, no weather-beaten
wayfarer. At first the dog was only a little black smudge against
the snow; then, as he arrived at the Coles' garden-gate, Jeremy
could see him very distinctly. He was, it appeared, quite alone; he
had been, it was evident, badly beaten by the storm. Intended by
nature to be a rough and hairy dog, he now appeared before God and
men a shivering battered creature, dripping and wind-tossed,
bedraggled and bewildered. And yet, even in that first distant
glimpse, Jeremy discerned a fine independence. He was a short stumpy