"for I saw them, while I was still struggling through the bushes, looking out of the back window,--and yet drove on indifferently? Did he suppose that in all the wide world there could be forgiveness for such people? He shrugged his shoulders. "Apres tout, madame," he said, "cc n'est qu'un chien." It seemed to me as I drove home, with Woosie wrapped in a cloth I had begged of the vet, at my feet--Woosie so quiet now, who had never yet been quiet, so for ever acquiescent,--it seemed to me as if I saw for the first time, in their just proportions, the cruelty and suffering which is life, and the sure release, the one real consolation, which is death. From having thought highly of being alive--for, with a few stretches of misery, I have been a fortunate and a happy person,--I began to think highly of being dead. Out of it all. Done with torment. Safe from further piteous woes. My mind, that is, during the drive, ran in directions which the comfortable would call morbid; it ran, in other words, in the direction of stark truth. And I don't see how it could do anything else with a little dead thing, a thing so lately of my intimate acquaintance, which an hour before had been almost fiercely alive and furiously enjoying itself, lying at my feet in the awful meekness of death. Finished, Woosie was; and the manner of his ending left me with a great desire, if only it were possible, to beg his pardon, and the pardon of all poor helpless creatures, for the tragic unkindness of human beings. I"