ath Mrs. Handsomebody's bed. Before our horrified eyes,
she worried it till the shoe-laces cracked about her head; threw it up and
caught it, as she had the mouse; then taking it to her own bed in the
scullery, she laid it there and rolled on it.

When Mary Ellen had wrested the shoe from Giftie, she crept upstairs, her
heart in her mouth, and restored it to its place beneath the bed.

"It was a marvel," she said afterwards, "how the scallywag did what she did
widout wakenin' _her_, for there was the mistress sleepin' on the broad of
her back, and her two shoes, and her bed-socks scattered over the flure,
and the pot of cold crame knocked off the chair at the head of her bed, and
the half of it et. It's mesilf will dance for joy whin that little tormint
gets took away."

Inquiries were made of all the errand boys, but not one had heard of a lost
dog. We came to dread the sound of the door-bell lest it should herald some
determined grown-up come to snatch our treasure from us. Mr. Watlin, the
butcher's young man, and Mary Ellen's favoured "follower" of the moment,
took a lively interest in the affair. He was of the opinion that if Mrs.
Handsomebody once saw the dog nothing would induce her to send it away. And
he brought offerings of raw meat in his pocket to make her plump and
glossy. Giftie grew plumper and glossier every day.

Then, when two weeks had passed, she achieved the crowning triumph of her
stay with us. It was a heavy morning of dense November fog, and the gas was
still burning in the dining-room when we came down to breakfast. Mary Ellen
did not bring us our porridge, as usual, neither did Giftie run in to greet
us; so, after a moment's impatient wriggling in our chairs, we went to the
kitchen to investigate. Giftie was nowhere in sight. Mary Ellen sat in an
attitude of complete abandon, by the dresser, her apron over her head, her
arms hanging loosely at her sides. Was Giftie dead? Had her owner come to
fetch her? What horror had overcast the sun? We deluged her with questions,
pulling the apron off her head, and dragging her from the chair.

"Och, it's a terror she is," Mary Ellen said, at last. "Come wid me to the
scullery an' ye'll see what she's got in the bed wid her."

There was not much light in the scullery so we could not at first
distinguish what lay on the mat beside Giftie. It moved; it snuffled;
no--_they_ moved; _they_ snuffled. There were three of them. All at once it
burst upon us that