night) that I was a poor sort of Christian to enjoy a sermon and then make no sort of effort to pat it into practice; in fact, that I was only a hearer of the Word, and not a doer, letting God’s message go in at one ear and out at the other, leaving nothing behind it. So I set to to pray that as I went on my way the angels of God might meet me, as they met Jacob, and save me from all harm. And what with the excitement of the sermon, and my own fears, and the darkness of the road, I got worked up to such a pitch that I shouldn’t have been surprised if a white-robed angel with shining wings had flown over the hedge and perched beside me.”
“Which, of course, no angel did,” interrupted Mrs. Veale.
“That is as may be,” retorted Mrs. Batterby darkly. “In the middle of my prayer I heard a rustle in the hedge on the side of the road, which, of course, I thought was a thief lying in wait to waylay me and murder me, and I prayed harder and harder. But then, in the fading light, I perceived that it was no thief, but a huge yellow collie-dog, such as they have for minding sheep.”
“Oh dear!” said Miss Skipworth; “I should have been as much afraid of a strange dog as of a strange man, if I’d been you.”
“Fortunately, however, you weren’t me, nor ever likely to be, which seems fortunate for all parties concerned,” replied her hostess dryly. “And as for being afraid of a dog—why! I’d been accustomed to dogs from a child, though I’m not the one to deny that collies are uncertain in temper and apt to snap at strangers unawares. So I spoke kindly to this one, in case it should take me for a thief come after its master’s sheep: though where the sheep were I hadn’t a notion, there being nothing but cornfields ready for cutting on both sides of the road, the harvest being very late that year.”
“It was rather foolish, to my thinking, to speak to it at all,” remarked Mrs. Windybank. “I had a friend once who spoke to a strange collie; and it bit her thimble finger so badly that she was never able to sew properly again.”
“Then she must have said the wrong thing to it,” replied Mrs. Batterby; “and it served her right. I know when folks say the wrong thing to me, I’d give anything to be able to bite their thimble finger, and dogs feel the same as we do. But to get on with my story. The dog came up to me quite friendly-like, and didn’t attempt to snap or anything; but though it came close to me, it wouldn’t let me touch or pet it. It shied away the moment I put out my hand to fondle it. So—being accustomed to dogs and their ways—I treated it as it evidently wished to be treated, and just talked to it pleasantly as it trotted along by my side.”
