court-yard sings a merry song that makes my heart ache, you, barking to him from the terrace to make him stop,—drown out his voice and spare me from that torment.
And when I return at night from the street where I have seen or heard of some infamous action that has filled me with disgust and loathing for the human race, I am comforted by finding in you the virtue and affection which I feel in the darkness from your caress and cheerful greeting at the opening of the door.
And when tired and half sick, I throw myself on the sofa in a state of depression, you restlessly come and lick my hand that hangs down, and say as plainly as you can: "Courage Master!" You know that to see you thus makes my heart ache.
And if I do not pay any attention, you jump up on me and stare at me until I bestir myself. Ah, your black and firm eyes! How many things might they tell, perhaps,—which I do not understand. And perhaps you, too, observe and comprehend much more than I give you credit for. At times, it seems that you understand that I have a persistent and terrible idea, or that you suspect it, and endeavor to divine
