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Now Daisy used to go up for solitary rambles on the fells sometimes, when she generally took Don as a protector. He was becoming very nearly as active as ever, and now there was a stronger motive than before for pursuing the swallows–for he had a notion that they would be rather good eating. But one morning she missed him on her way back through the village by the lake; she was sure he was with her on the pier, and she had only stopped to ask some question at the ticket-office about the steamboat times; and when she turned round, Don was gone.

However, her aunt was neither angry nor alarmed. Miss Millikin was not able to walk as much as Don wished, she said, so he was accustomed to take a great deal of solitary exercise; he was such a remarkably intelligent dog that he could be trusted to take care of himself–oh, he would come back.

And towards dusk that evening Don did come back. There was a curious air about him–subdued, almost sad; Daisy remembered long afterwards how unusually affectionate he had been, and how quietly he had lain on her lap till bedtime.

The next morning, when her aunt and she prepared to go for a walk along the lake, Don’s excitement was more marked than usual; he leaped up and tried to caress their hands: he assured them in a thousand ways of the delight he felt at being allowed to make one of the party.

After this, it was a painful surprise to find that he gave them the slip the moment they reached the village. But Miss Millikin said he always did prefer mountain scenery, and no doubt it was tiresome for him to have to potter about as they did. And Master Don began to give them less and less of his society in the daytime, and to wander from morn to dewy eve in solitude and independence; though whether he went up mountains to admire the view, or visited ruins and waterfalls, or spent his days hunting rabbits, no one at Applethwaite Cottage could even pretend to guess.

‘One good thing, Aunt Sophy,’ said Daisy complacently one evening, a little later, ‘I’ve quite cured Don of being troublesome at meals!’

‘He couldn’t be troublesome if he tried, dear,’ said Miss Millikin with mild reproof; ‘but I must say you have succeeded quite wonderfully–how did you do it?’

‘Why,’ said Daisy, ‘I spoke to him exactly as if he could understand every word, and I made him thoroughly see that he was only wasting his time by sitting up and begging for things. And you got to believe it at last, didn’t you, dear?’ she added to Don, who was lying stretched out on the rug.

Don pricked the ear that was uppermost, and then uttered a heavy sigh, which smote his mistress to the heart.

‘Daisy,’ she said, ‘it’s no use–I must give him something. Poor pet, he deserves it for being so good and patient all this time. One biscuit, Daisy?’

Even Daisy relented: ‘Well–a very plain one, then. Let me give it to him, auntie?’

The biscuit was procured, and Daisy, with an express intimation that this was a very particular indulgence, tendered it to the deserving terrier.

He half raised his head, sniffed at it–and then fell back again with another weary little sigh. Daisy felt rather crushed. ‘I’m afraid he’s cross with me,’ she said; ‘you try, Aunt Sophy.’ Aunt Sophy tried, but with no better success, though Don wagged his tail feebly to express that he was not actuated by any personal feeling in the matter–he had no appetite, that was all.

‘Daisy,’ said Miss Millikin, with something more like anger than she generally showed, ‘I was very wrong to listen to you about the diet. It’s perfectly plain to me that by checking Don’s appetite as we have we have done him serious harm. You can see for yourself that he is past eating anything at all now. Cook told me to-day that he had scarcely touched his meals lately. And yet he’s stouter than ever–isn’t he?’