one that both minstrel and wife had many and moving reasons to love.
This was a little wiry terrier, with dark piercing eyes, that glanced
quickly and sagaciously in all quarters from beneath the shaggy covert
that surrounded them. Slowly the animal moved onward, pulling gently
against the string by which he was held, and by which he guided his
master. Once his fidelity was tempted: another dog invited him to play;
the poor terrier looked anxiously and doubtingly round, and then,
uttering a low growl of denial, pursued--

"The noiseless tenour of his way."

The little procession stopped beneath the window where Lucy and Clifford
sat; for the quick eye of the woman had perceived them, and she laid her
hand on the blind man's arm, and whispered him. He took the hint, and
changed his air into one of love. Clifford glanced at Lucy; her cheek
was dyed in blushes. The air was over; another succeeded,--it was of the
same kind; a third,--the burden was still unaltered; and then Clifford
threw into the street a piece of money, and the dog wagged his abridged
and dwarfed tail, and darting forward, picked it up in his mouth; and the
woman (she had a kind face!) patted the officious friend, even before she
thanked the donor, and then she dropped the money with a cheering word or
two into the blind man's pocket, and the three wanderers moved slowly on.
Presently they came to a place where the street had been mended, and the
stones lay scattered about. Here the woman no longer trusted to the
dog's guidance, but anxiously hastened to the musician, and led him with
evident tenderness and minute watchfulness over the rugged way. When
they had passed the danger, the man stopped; and before he released the
hand which had guided him, he pressed it gratefully, and then both the
husband and the wife stooped down and caressed the dog. This little
scene--one of those rough copies of the loveliness of human affections,