It lay on its side on the slope of a tussock of grass, its hind legs drawn under it, its forelegs raised like the hands of a praying child.

Motionless as death, all its remaining life was centred in its black soft eyes.

Uncomplaining, ungrudging, unknowing, with that poor soft wandering eye, it was going back to Mother Earth.

There Foxleigh, too, some day must go, asking of Nature why she had murdered him..