For an hour or so he stayed away, wandering between his room and the
kitchen, the kitchen and the dining-room, and back again to his room,
talking to himself in an undertone; and presently he sat down by a
table and began to turn the pages of a family Bible which adorned it,
and which he had presented to himself the Christmas before.
"It do beat all how he love that dog," he said, as if to some one at
his side, "and it's a-goin' to make a hole in his heart when he's
gone. I never seen anybody set such store on a thing what ain't a
human being as he do on Gineral, and as for Gineral--if a dog could
do what you call worship, he sure do worship Mr. Laine. They was
partners, them two, and it will be a quiet place when Gineral ain't
here any more."
Slowly he turned page after page of the big-printed Bible, with its
illuminated text; but presently he closed it. "I've read right much
of it, and I've heard a heap of it expounded, but I haven't got no
recollections of any references to the passing of dogs in it," he
continued, taking out a plug of tobacco and cutting off a good-sized
piece. "I wish there was. When something you love is leavin' you,
you have a mighty sinkin' feeling in the pit of your stomach, and a
terrible understandin' of the unableness of man.
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