The gamekeeper, who had so many dogs that he did not care for any one of them in particular, had killed this one creature that was dearer to him than anything in the world, except little Nan, and grandfather, and Martha.

And Snip was dead, without remedy; no power on earth could bring back the departed life.

Oh, if he could only punish the villain who had shot his poor faithful dog! But he was nothing but a poor boy, very poor, and very helpless and friendless, and people would only laugh at his trouble.

All the world was against him, and he could do nothing to revenge himself, but to hate everybody! 'Why, lad! why, Stephen! what ails thee ?' said Black Thompson's voice, close behind him.

'Eh! who's gone and shot Snip?
That rascal Jones, I'll go bail! Is he quite dead, Stephen?
Stand up, lad, and let's give a look at him.' The boy rose, and faced Black Thompson and his comrade with eyes that were bloodshot, though he had not shed a tear, and with lips almost bitten through by his angry teeth.