Harry Milvaine Part 12

And the drift banked up--the cruel drift--up around him. It hid his legs, his arms, his shoulders, and at last his head itself.

Still the snow fell and the wind blew. It blew with a moaning, whistling sound through the tall pine-trees, as it does through rigging and cordage of a s.h.i.+p in a gale. It blew with a rus.h.i.+ng noise through the closer-branched spruce trees, and ever in a momentary lull you might have heard the frozen tips of the branches knocking together as if gla.s.s rattled.

It was a terrible night.

As usual on stormy evenings, stalwart John had gone to meet young Harry; but he kept the road. It never struck him that the boy would have ventured through the wood in such a night.

Harry's parents were sitting in the parlour anxious beyond all expression, when suddenly the quick, sharp, impatient bark of the collie rang out high above the howling wind.

In she rushed whining when the door was opened. But out she flew again.

"Oh, come quickly," she seemed to say, "and save poor young master!"

Mr Milvaine well knew what it meant. Five minutes after, with lanterns and poles, he and two trusty servants were following close at the honest dog's heels.

Up the hill by the fence side, up and up and into the wood, and never did the faithful animal halt until she led them to the tree where she had left the boy.

For a moment or two now she seemed lost. She went galloping round and round the tree; while with their lanterns Mr Milvaine and his servants looked in vain for poor Harry.

But back Eily came, and at once began to sc.r.a.pe in the snow. Then something dark appeared, and Eily barked for joy.

Her master was found.

Was he dead? They thought so at first. But the covering of snow had saved him.

They poured a little brandy over his throat, wrapped him tenderly in a Highland plaid, and bore him home. Yet it was days before he spoke.

Dear reader, did ever you consider what a blessing our loving Father has given us in a faithful dog? How kind we ought to be, and how considerate for the comfort of such a n.o.ble animal! And ever as they get older our thoughtfulness for their welfare and care of them ought to increase. Mind, too, that most good thinking men believe that dogs have a hereafter.

"I canna but believe," says the Ettrick shepherd, in his broad Doric, "that dowgs hae souls."

My friend, the Rev J.G. Wood, in his book called "Man and Beast," has proved beyond dispute that there is nothing in Scripture against the theory that the lower animals will have a hereafter.

And note how the goodly poet Tupper writes about his dear dog Sandy:

"Shall n.o.ble fidelity, courage and love, Obedience and conscience--all rot in the ground?

No room be found for them beneath or above, Nor anywhere in all the universe round?

Can Fatherhood cease? or the Judge be unjust?

Or changefulness mark any counsel of G.o.d?

Shall a b.u.t.terfly's beauty be lost in the dust?

Or the skill of a spider be crushed as a clod?

"I cannot believe it: Creation still lives; The Maker of all things made nothing in vain: The Spirit His gracious ubiquity gives, Though seeming to die, ever lives on again.

We 'rise with our bodies,' and reason may hope That truth, highest truth, may sink humbly to this, That 'Lo, the poor Indian' was wiser than Pope When he longed for his dog to be with him in bliss!"

Book 1--CHAPTER SEVEN.

LEAVING HOME.

From what I have already told the reader about Harry Milvaine, it will readily be gathered that he was a lad of decided character and of some considerable determination. A boy, too, who was apt to take action at the first touch of the spur of a thought or an idea.

What I have now to relate will, I think, prove this still further.

He left his uncle--a younger brother of his mother--and his father one evening talking in the dining-room. He had bidden them good-night and glided away upstairs to bed. He was partially undressed before he noticed that he had left a favourite book down in the library.

So he stole silently down to fetch it.

He had to pa.s.s the dining-room door, and in doing so the mention of his own name caused him to pause and listen.

Listeners, they say, seldom hear any good about themselves. Perhaps not, but the following is what Harry heard:

"Ha!" laughed Uncle Robert, "I tell you, brother, I'd do it. That would take the fun out of him. That would knock all notions of a sailor's life out of the lad. It has been done before, and most successfully too, I can tell you."

"And," replied Harry's father, "you would really advise me to--"

"I would really advise you to do as I say," said uncle, interrupting his brother-in-law. "I'd send him to sea for a voyage in a whaler. They sail in February, and they return in May--barely three months, you see."

"Indeed, then I do think I'll take your advice. But his mother loves the dear, brave boy so, that I'm sure she'll feel the parting very much."

"Well, well, my sister'll soon get over that."

Harry stayed to hear no more. He went back to his room without the book, and, instead of going to bed, lay down upon his sofa with the intention of what he called "doing a good think."

For fully an hour he lies there with his round eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Then he starts up.

"Yes," he cries, half aloud, "I'll do it, I'll do it. My father will see whether I have any courage or not."

He goes straight to the little money-box kennel that stood on the mantelpiece.

The canary and pigeon business had been profitable with Harry for some time past.

He was very wealthy indeed. More so even than he imagined, for now when he counted his horde it ran up to 4 pounds, 15 s.h.i.+llings, 6 pence.

"Splendid!" said Harry to himself; "I couldn't have believed I was so rich."

Then he knelt down and said his prayers, far more fervently than he was wont to do. Especially did he pray for blessings to fall on his dear mother and father.

"I don't think it is quite right," he said to himself, "what I am going to do, but it will be all right again in a few months."

He lay down in bed and slept soundly for hours. But the stars were still s.h.i.+ning thickly when he awoke and looked out of the window.

There was snow on the ground, hard, crisp snow.

Harry lit his candle, then he got out his small writing-case, and, after some time and considerable pains, succeeded in writing a letter, which he carefully folded and addressed.

Young though he was--with his tiny fowling-piece--a gift from one of his uncles--the boy could tumble either rabbit or hare, or bring down a bird on the wing, but he was not particularly clever with the pen. I wish I could say that he was.