(Second Prize Story—Free Lance competition.)
I was sitting alone in front of the old-fashioned grate fire-place
in his library, and the gloom and the silence that enwrapped the
whole house weighed heavily upon me. I recalled the many long
winter evenings that we had spent together in this room, and he
had been the soul and life of these evenings. The great arm
chair, where he always sat, was empty, and the voice that once
filled the room with its music was silent now and silent forever.
Down stairs in the room with the drawn curtains he slept uncon
scious of the scent of the flowers he loved.
The stillness pf the night was broken by cries such as one hears
from animals in pain. I sprang from my chair and rushed to the
hall. At the door of the room where he slept stood his dog look
ing wistfully for the door to open.
"Tige," I cried, "Tige, old boy, come here."
With joyful bark the clog bounded up the stairs and ran into
the library and up to his master's chair. Pain and disappointment
was pictured upon his face when he found that the chair was
empty. He looked inquiringly at me and seemed to ask :
"Is it true that my master is dead ?" Then he added, "Yes, it
must be, for last night when they brought him home and laid
him on the bed he called for me and said : `Tige, the doctor says
that I cannot recover. It's my heart, old boy. Mother has prom
ised to keep you, and you must take good care of her, old fellow,
for she will be all alone when lam gone. It was like my master
to look out for others, but never for himself.' "
Tige and I sat long in silence. Finally, taking his head be
tween my hands and looking into his face, I asked :
"Tige, I was away during two years of the master's life, and
when I returned I noticed that he had aged greatly, and that some
great sorrow had left its mark upon him. Do you know the cause
of the change ?"
Tige looked knowingly at me, and then in dog fashion told me