des there's a young man paying her attention, it's not a fitting
time--she might take a scare. I had promised to bring Barnwell K. the next
time."

They could hear from without the boy and the hysterical yelping of General
Jackson. "That dog won't bite?" Mrs. Berry worried. Gordon, patently
indignant, replied that the General never bit. "Barnwell might cross
him," she answered; and, moving to the door, summoned her offspring. It
was the sturdy individual who had burst into a wail at Clare's funeral,
his hair still bristling against a formal application of soap.

"C'm on in, doggy," he called; "c'm in, Ginral. I wisht I had a doggy like
that," he hung on his mother's knees lamenting the absence from their
household of a General Jackson. "Our ol' houn' dog's nothing," he
asserted.

Lettice, worn by her visitor's rapid monotone, the stir and clatter of
young shoes, remarked petulantly, "Gordon paid two hundred dollars for
that single dog; there ought to be something extra to him."

Mrs. Berry received this item without signal amazement; it was evident
that she was prepared to credit any vagaries to the possessors of Pompey
Hollidew's fabulous legacy.

"Just think of that!" she exclaimed mildly; "I'll chance that dog gets a
piece of liver every day."

Rose, from the door, announced supper. She was an awkward girl of
seventeen, with the pallid face and blank brown eyes of her father, and
diffident speech. Gordon faced Lettice over her figured red cloth; on one
side Barnwell K. sat flanked by his mother and Simeon Caley, on the other
Rose sat by an empty chair, the place of the now energetically employed
Mrs. Caley. The great, tin pot of coffee rested at Lettice's hand, and,
before Gordon, a portentous platter held three gaunt, brown chickens with
brilliant yellow legs stiffly in air. Between these two gastronomic poles
was a dish of heaped, quivering poached eggs, the inevitable gravy boat,
steaming potatoes and a choice of pies. Gordon dismembered the chickens,
and, as the plates circled the table, they accumulated potatoes and gravy
and eggs. Barnwell K., through an oversight, was defrauded of the last
item, and proceeded to remedy the omission. He thrust his knife into the
slippery, poached mass. At best a delicate operation, he erred, eggs
slipped, and a thick yellow stream flowed sluggishly to the rim of the
plate. His mother met this fault of manner with profuse, disconcerted
apologies. She shook him so vigorousl