t he bestirred himself and
rose, to the delight of his mongrel, who leaped upon him joyfully. An
hour later, or thereabout, the pair emerged from the narrow stairway
and stood for a moment, blinking in the fair sunshine, apparently
undecided which way to go. The church bells were silent; there was no
breeze; the air trembled a little with the deep pipings of the organ
across the Square, and, save for that, the town was very quiet. The
paths which crossed the Court-house yard were flecked with steady
shadow, the strong young foliage of the maples not moving, having the
air of observing the Sabbath with propriety. There were benches here
and there along the walks, and to one of these Joe crossed, and sat
down. The mongrel, at his master's feet, rolled on his back in morning
ecstasy, ceased abruptly to roll and began to scratch his ear with a
hind foot intently. A tiny hand stretched to pat his head, and the dog
licked it appreciatively. It belonged to a hard-washed young lady of
six (in starchy, white frills and new, pink ribbons), who had run ahead
of her mother, a belated church-goer; and the mongrel charmed her.

"Will you give me this dog?" she asked, without any tedious formalities.

Involuntarily, she departed before receiving a reply. The mother, a
red-faced matron whom Joe recognized as a sister of Mrs. Louden's,
consequently his step-aunt, swooped at the child with a rush and rustle
of silk, and bore her on violently to her duty. When they had gone a
little way the matron's voice was heard in sharp reproof; the child,
held by one wrist and hurried along on tiptoe, staring back over one
shoulder at Joe, her eyes wide, and her mouth the shape of the "O" she
was ejaculating.

The dog looked up with wistful inquiry at his master, who cocked an
eyebrow at him in return, wearing much the same expression. The mother
and child disappeared within the church doors and left the Square to
the two. Even the hotel showed no signs of life, for the wise men were
not allowed to foregather on Sundays. The organ had ceased to stir the
air and all was in quiet, yet a quiet which, for Louden, was not peace.
He looked at his watch and, without intending it, spoke the hour aloud:
"A quarter past eleven." The sound of his own voice gave him a little
shock; he rose without knowing why, and, as he did so, it seemed to him
that he heard close to his ear another voice, a woman's, troubled and
insistent, but clear and sweet, s