they were puppies--her puppies--our puppies--one apiece!
We flopped on the floor beside her. She darted from her bed--licked our
hands--snapped at our ankles--ran back to them--and, finally tremulous with
excitement, allowed us to take them in our arms (The Seraph wrapped his in
the skirt of his fresh holland smock) and sit blissfully in a row.

We stroked the soft licked fur of their glossy coats; we examined their
tiny sharp black nails; their blindness only endeared them the more to us.

There we were found by Mr. Watlin.

"'Ere's a picnic," he said. "'Ere's a bloomin' picnic." He caught up the
nearest puppy, and turned it over in an experienced hand. "Tiles must be
cut," he added.

"Tails cut! Oh, no," I expostulated, "Giftie's tail isn't cut. Please
don't."

"All terriers should 'ave their tiles cut," said Mr. Watlin, firmly. "If
the mother dog's tile isn't cut, is that any reason w'y 'er hoffspring
should be disfigured in a like manner? Now's the time."

"But it'll hurt," pleaded The Seraph. Do you do it wif a knife?"

"I _bites_ 'em orf," replied Mr. Watlin, laconically, "an' it don't 'urt a
bit."

"In this world," he went on, "a lot depends on the way you does a thing.
F'rinstance, when I kill a lamb or a steer, do I kill 'im brutally? Not at
all. I runs 'im up an' down the slaughter yard to get 'is circulation up--I
strokes 'im on the neck, an' tells 'im wot a fine feller 'e is, till 'e's
in such good spirits that 'e tikes the killin' as a joke. Just a part of
the gime, as it were. Sime with these 'ere pups. They'd like 'aving their
tiles bit orf by me."

We looked at the puppies doubtfully. It was hard to believe that they would
really like it, and we were relieved when Mary Ellen broke in--

"They will not be cut, nor bit, nor interfered wid in anny way. If Giftie's
owner likes a long tail on her, he'd want a long tail on her puppies
wouldn't he? That stands to reason, Mr. Watlin, don't it? and the owner may
walk in here anny day."

How we hated that nebulous owner! And now another cloud loomed on our
horizon. Mrs. Handsomebody was getting better. She had sat up on a chair by
the bedside; she had, with Mary Ellen's help, walked across the room; she
had, all alone, walked down the hallway; she had come to the head of the
stairs. She was like the man in the ghost story, who, fresh from his grave,
called to his wife--snugly sleeping above--"Mary, I'm at the foot of the
stairs.... Mary, I'm half way u