is with God . . . perhaps that is really Mir&o in
the sail; perhaps there was never ^any other Mireio
at all.9 Then he suddenly found himself whispering:-
'Please God, do be very kind to Mireio.*
The digging was hard when they reached the
ground. Anfos and Goundran dug the grave by turns,
while Christophe stood near-by to light their labour.
The grave looked so large that, as Goundran remarked,
it might very well have done for a man. And indeed
it did appear both wide and deep when seen thus
in the uncertain flame of the lantern. But at last
Goundran wiped the sweat from his brow:
'Here, give me the bitch;' he said, 'all is ready.*
So Mireio who had trodden that Provengal earth
ever since she had been a rough, lumbering puppy;
who had trodden it in gladness, who had trodden it
in pain, was now to find her rest in that earth; and
doubtless, had she been able to speak, her courageous
old heart would have chosen none other*. Thus,
as frequently happens in this world of ours which
appears to possess strange concepts of logic, Mireio
was more honoured and cared for in death than she
was during all her long, faithful lifetime. Had not
Goundran and Anfos borne her through their own
town, and she cleanly sewn up in a shroud of canvas?
Had they not dug a grave large enough for a man in
such obdurate ground that their brows had been
sweating? Had not Eusebe permitted her to lie on
the boundary of his cherished and profitable vine-
yards? And had not Jousfe agreed to it all, while
dreading the ridicule of his neighbours? Yes, assuredly
she was more cared for in death, having justified her
existence by dying.
This then was the funeral and burial of Mir&io,
the gaunt yellow bitch, who eight years before had
brought forth her large litter of lusty puppies in the
sawdust and shavings of the carpenter's shop belong-
158