"Ah! Nunnely had been with her the evening before!" thought Moore, parenthetically.
"I heard a panting sound; a dog came running up the lane. I know most of the dogs in this neighbourhood; it was Phœbe, one of Mr. Sam Wynne's pointers. The poor creature ran with her head down, her tongue hanging out; she looked as if bruised and beaten all over. I called her; I meant to coax her into the house, and give her some water and dinner; I felt sure she had been ill-used: Mr. Sam often flogs his pointers cruelly. She was too flurried to know me; and when I attempted to pat her head, she turned and snatched at my arm. She bit it so as to draw blood, then ran panting on. Directly after, Mr. Wynne's keeper came up, carrying a gun. He asked if I had seen a dog, I told him I had seen Phœbe.
"'You had better chain up Tartar, ma'am,' he said, 'and tell your people to keep within the house; I am after Phœbe to shoot her, and the groom is gone another way. She is raging mad.'
Mr. Moore leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms across his chest: Miss Keeldar resumed her square of silk canvass, and continued the creation of a wreath of Parmese violets.
"And you told no one, sought no help, no cure: you would not come to me?"
"I got as far as the school-room door; there my courage failed: I preferred to cushion tho matter."
