ess of the greyhound, the strength
of the boarhound, and the picturesque, wiry shaggyness of the
deerhound; those animals whose history goes back to the beginning
of the Christian era; through all the storied ages in which they
were the friends and companions of kings and princes, great
chieftains and mighty hunters.

For several minutes the man paused before a picture, underneath
which was written: "The Mistress of the Kennels." This picture
showed a girl with wind-blown hair, happy face, and laughing eyes,
standing, with a small puppy in her arms, in the midst of a wide
kennel enclosure on the sloping rise of an upland meadow. In the
background one saw a comfortable-looking house, half hidden by two
huge walnut trees, and flanked by a row of aged elms. When the man
had looked his fill at this picture, and at other pictures of
various Irish Wolfhounds, each marked with the name and age of the
hound depicted, he sighed, and went to the window again. While he
stood there, looking out through the February sleet, the door of
the den opened, and the Mistress of the Kennels came in, wearing a
big, loose overall, or pinafore, which covered her dress
completely. Her face had not quite the colour which the picture
made one feel it must have had when she stood in that wide,
windy, kennel enclosure; but it was still a sunny face; the eyes
were still laughing eyes; a loving, lovable face, one felt, even
though London had robbed it of some of its open-air freshness. She
walked up to the man's side, and, seeing the expression on his face
as he gazed out over the wet roofs, she said--

"Yes, it is, rather--isn't it?--after Croft."

"Oh, don't talk of Croft, child, or you'll bring my spring madness
upon me before its time. I have had hints of it this morning, as it
is. It seems almost incredible that we have only been two years and
four months away from Croft, and the old open life. I was looking
at the picture of the Mistress of the Kennels just now. Do you
remember that morning? Tara's first litter hadn't long been weaned.
My goodness, the air was sweet in that meadow! That was the morning
poor old crippled Eileen ran the rabbit down, you remember."

"Yes, and it was old Tara's third day out, after that awful
illness. Well, well, it's a blessed thing to know that the old dear
is happy, and has such a lovely home down in Devonshire, isn't it?"

"Yes, oh yes; I know it might have been worse, and I'm a brute to
be discontented,