rue the kennel beneath the ladder was empty now, and
had a rusty and pathetic air as of long disuse; but the
Monster-without-Manners was not dead, alas!--he had but changed his
abode. Now and for some years past the Great Unspeakable had shared a
kennel with the Four-Legs-Who-Might-Not-Walk-Alone; the one who there
was all this foolish fuss about. There were many such Four-Legs about,
each as a rule with a small Two-Legs in attendance or on top. As a
whole, they were harmless. They lived and let live, and Maudie asked no
more. But the Four-Legs with whom the Monster-without-Manners had
entered on a sinister intimacy had been corrupted by his companion. He
bounded, too, upon occasion. And when he bounded he was so big that he
seemed to fill the yard, sprawling here and there and everywhere, till
the walls bulged and burst, to the grave inconvenience of Maudie, the
fan-tails, and all sober citizens; while the Monster-without-Manners
_more suo_, encouraged him with coarse laughter.

When the Four-Legs-Who-Might-Not-Walk-Alone bounded in the yard, Maudie
retired indignantly and with the grand air to safety in the loft. She
did not blame the Four-Legs. He was young, innocent, and the victim of
the impossible M.-w.-M., who was still the villain of her piece and had
not altered for the better with the years. Maybe he bounded less; but on
the other hand age had brought with it cunning.

When Putnam's Only Gentleman had brought her a saucer of milk the
M.-w.-M. would approach with a great air of gallantry and high breeding,
and deliberately thrusting his great foot into the saucer, would upset
it. That was what the M.-w.-M. thought a joke.

Apart from Maudie the yard was deserted now. The horses moved restlessly
in their loose-boxes, but there was no bustle of shirt-sleeved urchins
with buckets and pitchforks mucking them out. For it was Sunday morning,
and the lads were elsewhere.

Arrayed on the long-backed roofs the fan-tails sidled, cooed, and
blinked in the sun. In a sycamore in the Paddock Close a hedge-sparrow
raised its thin sweet song, and the celandine lifted a pale and fragile
face under the beeches on the hillside. Hope was everywhere except in
Maudie's heart, for February was already on the wane.

The back door of the house opened, and Mrs. Woodburn, grayer than of
old, stately and aproned, stood in it with a corn-measure in her hand,
and tossed showers of golden grain for the fan-tails who came fluttering
to h