ittle Hugh, three years younger, and the two toddling
about the terrace together, Hugh always Brock's satellite and adorer, as
was fitting; less sturdy, less daring than Brock, yet ready to go
anywhere if only the older baby led. She thought of the day when Hugh,
four years old, had taken fright at a black log among the bushes under
the trees.

"It's a bear!" little Hugh had whispered, shaking, and Brock, brave but
not too certain, had looked at her, inquiring.

"No, love, it's not a bear; it's an old log of wood. Go and put your
hand on it, Hughie."

Little Hugh had cried out and shrunk back. "I'm afraid!" cried little
Hugh.

And Brock, not entirely clear as to the no-bear theory, had yet bluffed
manfully. "Come on, Hughie; let's go and bang 'um," said Brock.

Which invitation Hugh accepted reluctantly with a condition, "If you'll
hold my hand, B'ocky."

The woman turned her head to see the place where the black log had lain,
there in the old high bushes. And behold! Two strong little figures in
white marched along--she could all but see them today--and the bigger
little figure was dragging the other a bit, holding a hand with
masterful grip. She could hear little Hugh's laughter as they arrived at
the terrible log and found it truly a log. Even now Hugh's laugh was
music.

"Why, it's nuffin but an old log o' wood!" little Hugh had squealed, as
brave as a lion.

As she sat seeing visions, old Mavourneen, Brock's Irish wolf-hound,
came and laid her muzzle on the woman's shoulder, crying a bit, as was
Mavourneen's Irish way, for pleasure at finding the mistress. And with
that there was a brown ripple and a patter of many soft feet, and a
broken wave of dogs came around the corner, seven little cairn-terriers.
Sticky and Sandy and their offspring. The woman let Sticky settle in her
lap and drew Sandy under her arm, and the puppies looked up at her from
the step below with ten serious, anxious eyes and then fell to chasing
quite imaginary game up and down the stone steps. Mavourneen sighed
deeply and dropped with a heavy thud, a great paw on the edge of the
white dress and her beautiful head resting on her paws, the topaz,
watchful eyes gazing over the city. The woman put her free hand back and
touched the rough head.

"Dear dog!" she spoke.

Another memory came: how they had bought Mavourneen, she and Hugh and
the boys, at the kennels in Ireland, eight years ago; how the huge baby
had been sent to them at Li