She knew not what to make
of this new morning mood of Cuckoo, and wagged a heavily pensive head
over it, unresponsive and muttering. Jessie, too, was astonished, but
more pleasantly. The little dog, dwelling ignorantly in the midst of
degradation, had learned quickly the swing of its beloved mistress's
moods. In the dim morning it was ever the comforter of misery it could
not rightly understand, not the playfellow of happiness that stirred it
to leaps and barks of wonder and excitement. In the mornings Cuckoo held
it long against her thin bosom, sometimes crushed it nearly breathless,
pushing its little head down in the nest of her arms and telling it a
tale of the world's woe that sent long and thin whimpers twittering
through its body. The fluttering whisper of morning misery, or the
silence of vacant fatigue, these were accustomed things to Jessie. Even
if she did not thoroughly understand them, she was ready for them, and
eagerly responsive, as dogs are, to emotions along whose verges they
tread with the soft feet of sympathy, the sweeter for the ignorance
that paints their generosity in such tender colours. But Jessie was
_boulevers?e_ by this passionate, eager Cuckoo; this shadow on fire, who
was alive almost ere London was alive, instead of half dead until half
London slept.
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