creffes, the dog running after a young gentleman's horſe, made it ſtart, and almoſt threw the rider; who grew ſo angry, that, though he knew it was the poor madman's dog, he levelled his gun at his head—ſhot him—and inſtantly rode off. Robin ran to his dog—he looked at his wounds, and not ſenſible that he was dead, called to him to follow him; but when he found that he could not, he took him to the pool, and waſhed off the blood before it began to clot, and then brought him home, and laid him on the mat.
I obſerved that I had not ſeen him pacing up the hills as uſual, and ſent to enquire about him. He was found ſitting by the dog, and no entreaties could prevail on him to quit the body, or receive any reſreſhment. I inſtantly ſet off for this place, hoping, as I had always been a favourite, that I ſhould be able to perſuade him to eat ſomething. But when I came to him, I found the hand of death was upon him. He was ſtill melancholy; yet there was not ſuch a mixture of wildneſs in it as formerly.
