p path, and finally, the mother interfering, seizes the bone
of contention as her own, and in canine language, desires the two
culprits to follow her with hang-dog looks and lowered tails, to their
kennel.

"Ha, ha, ha!" says Roger, forgetful of everything but the pretty pups
and their tiny war.

"Ha, ha, ha!" says Dulce, equally unmindful of the stormy past. "How
sweet they looked, naughty things. And how they _did_ bark and bite. Dr.
Watts should have been here to see them."

"I wonder will they get that bone back?" says Roger, turning to her, all
animosity forgotten in the pleasurable excitement of the moment.

"Let us come and see," exclaims she, with considerable animation, and in
the friendliest tone imaginable. She glances up at him from under her
long lashes with one of her brightest and sunniest smiles, and moves a
step nearer to him.

"We must run if we want to be in time for the finish," says
Roger--"come."

He takes her hand, and together they move towards the door. They are,
apparently, as happy and as good friends as if no harsh words had ever
passed between them.

"Going out now," says Julia, as they pass the low wicker chair in which
she is lounging, "so late?"

"Don't be long, Dulce," says Portia, in her plaintive way. "I miss you
when you are out of my sight."

"I shan't be any time," says Dulce.

"Mr. Gower said it was going to rain, and it is a long way to the yard,"
says Julia again. "Stay here, and keep dry."

"I suppose Gower is not infallible," says Roger, hastily. "I think it
will not rain."

"I think so too," says Dulce, adorably; "and as for Mr. Gower, I only
know one thing; I shall never give _him_ any of my own cake again,
because he looked just as if he was going to die, or have a tooth drawn,
all the time he was eating it to-day."

Then they disappear, still hand-in-hand, in search of the refractory
puppies, and Portia, turning to Sir Mark, says softly:

"What am I to think now? How is it with them? Have they--"

"Yes; quite that," says Sir Mark, airily. "All is forgotten; the storm
is over--not even a breeze remains. The delicate charms of two snarling
puppies have put an end to strife--for the present. Let us be grateful
for small mercies--_and_ the puppies."

"It is very wonderful," says Portia, still showing some soft surprise.

CHAPTER XI.

"There's something in a flying horse."
--PETER BELL.

"For of fort