short, flexible stump gave an air of great decision to Sandy's
movements. But his chief peculiarity, and I must add, attraction,
in my opinion, was the perfume of his sleek coat. When Sandy
condescended to take his evening doze on my linsey lap, I never
smelt anything so strange and so agreeable as the odour of his fur,
specially that on the top of his head. It was like the most
delicate musk, but without any of the sickly smell common to that
scent. I believe Sandy knew of this personal peculiarity, and felt
proud of it.

A far more unselfish and agreeable personage was Rose, the white
terrier, whose name often finds a loving place in these pages. She
and Sandy dwelt together in peace and amity, although the little
doggie never could have felt any affection for her selfish
companion. Rose's nerves were of a delicate and high-strung order,
and there was nothing she hated so much as uproarious noise. Every
now and then it chanced that during a few days of wet or windy
weather, our little house had been filled by passing guests:
gentlemen who had called in to ask for supper and a bed, intending
to go on next day. In a country where inns or accommodation-houses
are fifty miles apart, this is a common incident, and it sometimes
happens that the resources of station hospitality are taxed to the
utmost in this way. I have known our own little wooden box to be so
closely packed, that besides a guest on each sofa in the
drawing-room, there would be another on a sort of portable couch in
the dining-room. This was after the spare room had been filled to
the utmost. A delicate "new chum," who required to be pampered, had
retired to rest on the hard kitchen sofa described elsewhere; whilst
a couple of sturdy travellers were sleeping soundly in the saddle
room. After that, there could be nothing for the last comer except