He
lay on his side with his legs stretched out; his eyes were closed.
But when I stooped over him and cried "Ruby!" his flabby ears pricked,
and he began to struggle.
"It's a fit," said the groom.
But it was nothing of the kind. Rubens knew what he was about, and at
last actually got on to his feet, when, after swaying feebly about for
a moment, he staggered in my direction (he could not see) and
literally fell into my arms, with one last wag of his dear tail.
"They say care killed the cat," said Mrs. Bundle, when I went up to
the nursery, "but if it could cure a dog, my deary, your dog would
have been alive now. I never see the Squire so put about since you had
the fever. He was up at five o'clock this very morning, the groom
says, putting stuff into the corners of its mouth with a silver
teaspoon, and he've had all the cow doctors about to see him, and Dr.
Gilpin himself he've been every day, and Mr. Andrewes the same. And
I'd like to know, my deary, what more could be done for a sick
Christian than the doctor and parson with him daily till he dies?"
"A Christian would be buried in the churchyard," said I; "and I wish
poor dear Rubens could.
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