iful he was and have the
points and characteristics of a Maltese terrier explained to him.

Busteretto was reaching dog's estate, his shape had taken on a degree of
subtlety, his hair was growing long and straight and like leaves of the
weeping willow. Estelle lifted the white fringe depending from his brow,
and exposed to the light two great limpid brown eyes, incredibly sweet
and intelligent. It was as wonderful, in its way, as if a blind beggar,
insignificant and easy to pass by as he stood at the street-corner,
should take off black goggles suddenly, and you should perceive that he
was a masking angel come to test the hearts of men.

"Did you ever see such a little sweetheart?" gasped Estelle.

"A pretty little fellow," spoke the doctor commendingly. With the
instinct to relieve discomfort he raised the veil of hair again as soon
as Estelle had let it drop, and looking further into the beautiful eyes,
that with the neat nose made a triangle of dark spots effective as
mouches on Columbine's cheek,--"Why don't you tie up his hair like this
to keep it out of the way?" he asked.

"We mustn't! Mr. Fane, who gave him to Nell, says it would be bad for
him, he might go blind. They're that kind of eyes and need the shield
from the light. Mr. Fane knows all about this Maltese breed of dogs."

"Is he the same one who painted her portrait?" Dr. Tom deviated from the
subject of the dog, over whose eyes the curtain was allowed to drop
again.

"Yes, he's an artist."

"And the same one she nursed through an illness?" asked Dr. Tom after a
moment, with the mere amount of interest apparently of one asking for a
topographical detail, so that he may get his bearings.

"Yes. You'd know, wouldn't you, that she'd have to, if she thought he
wasn't getting the right care and didn't see any other way of providing
it."

"Well, Skip," Dr. Tom returned his attention to the dog, "you're a fine
little fellow. Yes, sir." He held out a large pink hand and received in
it immediately a wee gentlemanly hand of fur and horn, rather smaller
than any of his fingers. "Good dog," he said, and regarded their
friendship as sealed. But next minute, because Estelle had whispered to
him, "Make believe to strike me," he lifted his fist menacingly against
her, and on the instant, with the courage of a David, there dashed
against him a little wild white flurry, not to bite--the skin of man is
sacred--but by a show of pearly teeth and the growlings of a l