Here he is again, awake,—he who watches over me if I'm sleeping.
I'm not sleeping, no; but you can remain, little friend. Why, what is the matter with you!
I just stretched out my hand to pat him, and he gave a screech and drew his head back as if to shun a blow, at the same time casting on me a look of fear.
What in the world! I had never struck him, nor had any one else in this house. Nor had anybody ever struck him in the few days which had passed between his birth and change of residence.
How ever could he fear a harm with which he had never had any experience, and which he ought not to recognize?
Was it not heredity, that terror of the man's hand, when he felt my sudden act, an act not explained by my countenance as at other times? Surely, that must be the explanation.
O, poor Dick! Who knows how many blows were dealt out to his ancestors, since he descends from a line of vulgar canines? Perhaps not one in half a century attained to the value of a dollar. It may be that not one of them was ever missed by his master: but he may have had
