They did not consider him.
They were as dead.
He turned and silently gazed after the old master. Skiff Miller
was rounding the curve. In a moment he would be gone from view.
Yet he never turned his head, plodding straight onward, slowly and
methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was
occurring behind his back.
And in this fashion he went out of view. Wolf waited for him to
reappear. He waited a long minute, silently, quietly, without
movement, as though turned to stone - withal stone quick with
eagerness and desire. He barked once, and waited. Then he turned
and trotted back to Walt Irvine. He sniffed his hand and dropped
down heavily at his feet, watching the trail where it curved
emptily from view.
The tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed
suddenly to increase the volume of its gurgling noise. Save for
the meadow-larks, there was no other sound. The great yellow
butterflies drifted silently through the sunshine and lost
themselves in the drowsy shadows. Madge gazed triumphantly at her
husband.
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