But I'm like a man at a good play; I've simply got to stay and see
how it ends, for the great Dramatist has me guessing."

Warrington stared into the kind brown eyes and pulled the ragged ears.
There was a kind of guilt in the old dog's eyes, for dogs have
consciences. If only he dared tell his master! There was somebody else
now. True, this somebody else would never take the master's place; but
what was a poor dog to do when he was lonesome and never laid eyes on
his master for months and months? Nobody paid much attention to him in
this house when the master was away. He respected aunty (who had the
spinster's foolish aversion for dogs and the incomprehensible
affection for cats!) and for this reason never molested her
supercilious Angora cat. Could he be blamed if he sought (and found)
elsewhere affection and confidence? Why, these morning rides were as
good as a bone. She talked to him, told him her secrets (secrets he
swore on a dog's bible never to reveal!) and desires, and fed him
chicken, and cuddled him. There were times when he realized that old
age was upon him; some of these canters left him breathless and
groggy.

"I've been thinking, boy," the master's voice went on. "New York isn't
so much, after all. I wasn't city born, and there are times when the
flowing gold of the fields and the cool woods call. Bah! There's
nothing now to hold me anywhere. I hope she'll make him happy; she can
do it if she tries. Heigh-ho! the ride this morning has made me
sleepy. To your rug, boy, to your rug."

Warrington stretched himself on the lounge and fell asleep. And thus
the aunt found him on her return from church. She hated to wake him
but she simply could not hold back the news till luncheon. She touched
his arm, and he woke with the same smile that had dimpled his cheeks
when he was a babe in her arms. Those of us who have retained the good
disposition of youth never scowl upon being awakened.

"Aha," he cried, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Richard, I wish you had gone to church this morning."

"And watched the gossips and scandal-mongers twist their barbs in Mrs.
Bennington's heart? Hardly."

She gazed at him, nonplussed. There was surely something uncanny in
this boy, who always seemed to know what people were doing, had done
or were going to do.

"I wouldn't have believed it of my congregation," she said.

"Oh, Mrs. Bennington is a woman of the world; she understands how to
make barbs harmless. But t