"Friends," said he, looking appealingly to all the rest, Meadows
included, "I wanted him to say God bless you, but snuff is all his
thought now. Well, old man, George won't forget your last word, such
as 'tis."

In a hutch near a corner of the house was William's pointer, Carlo.
Carlo, observing by the general movement that there was something on
foot, had the curiosity to come out to the end of his chain, and as he
stood there, giving every now and then a little uncertain wag of his
tail, George took notice of him and came to him and patted his head.

"Good-by, Carlo," faltered George, "poor Carlo--you and I shall never
go after the partridges again, Carlo. The dog shows more understanding
than the Christian. By, Carlo." Then he looked wistfully at William's
dog, but he said nothing more.

William watched every look of George, but he said nothing at the time.

"Good-by, little village church, where I went to church man and boy;
good-by, churchyard, where my mother lies; there will be no church
bells, Susan, where I am going; no Sunday bells to remind me of my
soul and home."

These words, which he spoke with great difficulty, were hardly out of
young Fielding's mouth when a very painful circumstance occurred; one
of those things that seem the contrivance of some malignant spirit.
The church bells in a moment struck up their merriest peal!

George Fielding started, he turned pale and his lips trembled. "Are
they mocking me?" he cried. "Do they take a thought what I am going