—called out—received no answer—summoned
back my recreant courage—and looked under
the seat.

There, crouched up in the farthest corner,
lay the forlorn cause of my terror, in the shape
of a poor little dog—a black and white spaniel.
The creature moaned feebly when I looked at it
and called to it, but never stirred. I moved
away the seat and looked closer. The poor little
dog's eyes were glazing fast, and there were
spots of blood on its glossy white side. The
misery of a weak, helpless, dumb creature is
surely one of the saddest of all the mournful
sights which this world can show. I lifted the
poor dog in my arms as gently as I could, and
contrived a sort of make-shift hammock for him
to lie in, by gathering up the front of my dress
all round him. In this way, I took the creature,
as painlessly as possible, and as fast as possible,
back to the house.

Finding no one in the hall, I went up at once
to my own sitting-room, made a bed for the dog
with one of my old shawls, and rang the bell.
The largest and fattest of all possible housemaids
answered it, in a state of cheerful
stupidity which would have provoked the patience
of a saint. The girl's fat, shapeless face actually
stretched into a broad grin, at the sight of
the wounded creature on the floor.

"What do you see there to laugh at?" I
asked, as angrily as if she had been a servant of
my own. "Do you know whose dog it is?"

"No, miss, that I certainly don't." She
stopped, and looked down at the spaniel's
injured side—brightened suddenly with the irradiation
of a new idea—and, pointing to the wound
with a chuckle of satisfaction, said, "That's
Baxter's doings, that is."

I was so exasperated that I could have boxed
her ears. "Baxter?" I said. " Who is the brute
you call Baxter?"

The girl grinned again, more cheerfully than
ever. "Bless you, miss! Baxter's the keeper;
and when he finds strange dogs hunting about,
he takes and shoots 'em. It's keeper's dooty,
miss. I think that dog will die. Here's where
he's been shot, ain't it? That's Baxter's doings,
that is. Baxter's doings, miss, and Baxter's
dooty."

I was almost wicked enough to wish that
Baxter had shot the housemaid instead of the
dog. Seeing that it was quite useless to expect
this densely impenetrable personage to give me
any help in relieving the suffering creature
at our feet, I told her to request the
housekeeper's attendance, with my compliments. She
went out exactly as she had come in, grinning
from ear to ear. As the door closed on her, she
said to herself, softly, "It's Baxter's doings and
Baxter's dooty—that's what it is."

The housekeeper, a person of some education
and intelligence, thoughtfully brought up-stairs
with her some milk and some warm water. The
instant she saw the dog on the floor, she started
and changed colour.

"Why, Lord bless me," cried the housekeeper,
"that must be Mrs. Catherick's dog!"

"Whose?" I asked, in the utmost
astonishment.

"Mrs. Catherick's. You seem to know Mrs.
Catherick, Miss Halcombe?"

"Not personally. But I have heard of her.
Does she live here? Has she had any news of
her daughter?"

"No, Miss Halcombe. She came here to ask
for news?"

"When?"

"Only yesterday. She said someone had
reported that a stranger answering to the
description of her daughter had been seen in our
neighbourhood. No such report has reached
us here; and no such report was known in the
village, when I sent to make inquiries there on
Mrs. Catherick's account. She certainly brought
this poor little dog with her when she came;
and I saw it trot out after her when she went
away. I suppose the creature strayed into the
plantations, and got shot. Where did you find
it, Miss Halcombe?"

"In the old shed that looks out on the lake."

"Ah, yes, that is the plantation side, and the
poor thing dragged itself, I suppose, to the
nearest shelter, as dogs will, to die. If you can
moisten its lips with the milk, Miss Halcombe,
I will wash the clotted hair from the wound. I
am very much afraid it is too late to do any good.
However, we can but try."

Mrs. Catherick! The name still rang in my
ears, as if the housekeeper had only that moment
surprised me by uttering it. While we were
attending to the dog, the words of Walter
Hartright's caution to me returned to my memory.
"If ever Anne Catherick crosses your path,
make better use of the opportunity, Miss
Halcombe, than I made of it." The finding of the
wounded spaniel had led me already to the
discovery of Mrs. Catherick's visit to Blackwater
Park; and that event might lead, in its turn, to
something more. I determined to make the most
of the chance which was now offered me, and
to gain as much information as I could.

"Did you say that Mrs. Catherick lived
anywhere in this neighbourhood?" I asked.

"Oh, dear no," said the housekeeper. "She
lives at Welmingham; quite at the other end of
the county—five-and-twenty miles off at least."

"I suppose you have known Mrs. Catherick
for some years?"

"On the contrary, Miss Halcombe; I never
saw her before she came here, yesterday. I had
heard of her, of course, because I had heard of
Sir Percival's kindness in putting her daughter
under medical care. Mrs. Catherick is rather
a strange person in her manners, but extremely
respectable-looking. She seemed sorely put out,
when she found that there was no foundation—
none, at least, that any of us could discover—for
the report of her daughter having been seen in
this neighbourhood."

"I am rather interested about Mrs. Catherick,"
I went on, continuing the conversation as
long as possible. "I wish I had arrived here
soon enough to see her yesterday. Did she stay
for any length of time?"