own every morning at a
certain hour, evidently for the day's business; a stout, smart lady,
with smart daughters, was seen going forth in the afternoons; the maids
took their little outings; but no one took the dog. He lived alone on
his patch of brick, either hidden in the kennel or lying in the sun
with his nose between his paws. He had his food regularly, for it was a
regular household; but beyond that, no notice seemed taken of him.
Rose, worked up from day to day, declared at last that she could not
stand it. "Why, what can you do?" said Deb. "He is their dog, not
yours." "Oh, I don't know; but I must do something."

One moonlight night she heard him--always silent and supine, except
when suspicious persons came into the yard--baying softly to himself,
plainly (to her) voicing the weariness of his unhappy life. She sat up
in bed and listened to him, and to his master shouting to him at
intervals to "be quiet"; and she wept with sympathetic grief.

It was a Saturday night. On Sunday morning she excused herself from
going to church. She saw Deb and Francie go, and she saw the family of
the next house go--heard their front door bang, and caught gleams of
smart dresses through the foliage of their front garden. Then she put
on her hat and stole forth to intercede for the collie with the cook of
his establishment, a kindly-looking person, who had once been observed
to pat his head.

The gleaming imitation-mahogany door at which she rang with a
determined hand but a fluttering heart, was, to her dismay, opened to
her by a young man--the son of the house, whom she had seen going to
business every week-day morning, tailored beautifully, and wearing a
silk hat that dazzled one. He was now in a very old suit,
flannel-shirted and collarless, so that at first she did not recognise
him.

The desire of each was to turn and fly, but the necessity upon them was
to face their joint mishap and see it through. Crimson, the young man
mumbled apologies for his state of unreadiness to receive ladies;
equally crimson, Rose begged him not to mention it, and apologised for
her own untimely call.

"Miss Pennycuick, I believe?" stammered he, with an awkward bow.

"Miss Rose Pennycuick--yes," said she, struggling through her
overwhelming embarrassment. "I called--I wanted--I--I--MIGHT I speak to
you for just one minute, Mr Breen?"

She had lived beside him long enough to know his name, also his
occupation. The Breens were drapers. Th