Presently, seeing her mother in the porch, she jumped up, and crying
out: "Ossy--Ossy! Walk!" rushed to Gyp and embraced her legs, while the
old Scotch terrier slowly followed.

Thus held prisoner, Gyp watched the dog's approach. Nearly three years
had changed her a little. Her face was softer, and rather more grave,
her form a little fuller, her hair, if anything, darker, and done
differently--instead of waving in wings and being coiled up behind,
it was smoothly gathered round in a soft and lustrous helmet, by which
fashion the shape of her head was better revealed.

"Darling, go and ask Pettance to put a fresh piece of sulphur in Ossy's
water-bowl, and to cut up his meat finer. You can give Hotspur and
Brownie two lumps of sugar each; and then we'll go out." Going down on
her knees in the porch, she parted the old dog's hair, and examined his
eczema, thinking: "I must rub some more of that stuff in to-night. Oh,
ducky, you're not smelling your best! Yes; only--not my face!"

A telegraph-boy was coming from the gate. Gyp opened the missive with
the faint tremor she always felt when Summerhay was not with her.

"Detained; shall be down by last train; need not come up
to-morrow.--BRYAN."

When the boy was gone, she stooped down and stroked the old dog's head.

"Master home all day to-morrow, Ossy--master home!"

A voice from the path said, "Beautiful evenin', ma'am."

The "old scoundrel," Pettance, stiffer in the ankle-joints, with more
lines in his gargoyle's face, fewer stumps in his gargoyle's mouth, more
film over his dark, burning little eyes, was standing before her, and,
behind him, little Gyp, one foot rather before the other, as Gyp had
been wont to stand, waited gravely.

"Oh, Pettance, Mr. Summerhay will be at home all to-morrow, and we'll go
a long ride: and when you exercise, will you call at the inn, in case
I don't go that way, and tell Major Winton I expect him to dinner
to-night?"

"Yes, ma'am; and I've seen the pony for little Miss Gyp this morning,
ma'am. It's a mouse pony, five year old, sound, good temper, pretty
little paces. I says to the man: 'Don't you come it over me,' I says;
'I was born on an 'orse. Talk of twenty pounds, for that pony! Ten, and
lucky to get it!' 'Well,' he says, 'Pettance, it's no good to talk round
an' round with you. Fifteen!' he says. 'I'll throw you one in,' I says,
'Eleven! Take it or leave it.' 'Ah!' he says, 'Pettance, YOU know 'ow to
buy an 'orse. A