his dog," he said. "Peerless has run away!"

VII

THE CRISIS IN 25

He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us
He made and loveth all.

Something was wrong with little Tommy Earle. Consequently, something was
wrong with the whole Earle plantation. Frank, the Earle dog--a stately
Irish setter, rich in the wisdom and devotion of the nobly bred bird
dog--Frank had sensed it yesterday afternoon. The boy had not come out
of the house until long after dinner. Then he had strolled off forlornly
and in silence toward the garage. His frowsy head had been bowed as if
he were studying his own little shadow at his feet. His wide blue
eyes--they were exactly on a level with the dog's anxiously inquiring
ones--had had in them a suggestion of pain and helplessness, of
dependence on things bigger than himself.

He had made no outcry; Tommy was something of a stoic. In fact, he had
said nothing at all. But that look had gone straight to the dog's
heart. Since hunting season was over he had been self-appointed guardian
of this boy. The two had come to understand one another as boys and dogs
understand. There was no need of words now. Frank understood; something
hurt the boy inside.

The young mother had run out, her face anxious, and had taken Tommy in
out of the sun. He had not seemed to mind going in, and that would have
been enough of itself. Frank had followed them up on the porch; the
screen door had slammed in his face. He had strolled off, tail
depressed; he had lain down in the shade of the front-walk hedge, his
ears pricked toward the big white house with the columned porch. It had
remained ominously silent inside. The boy had not come out again. The
long June afternoon had passed brooding and vacant, as if it were Sunday
and all the people on the plantation had gone to church.

Now another morning was here. But instead of the boy running out to
greet it a man in a car was driving up the heavy shaded avenue of oaks
that led from the big road. Frank met him as he got out of his car,
looked up anxiously into his spectacled face, whiffed the
strange-smelling satchel he carried, escorted him gravely up the steps.
Steve Earle, the boy's father, the dog's master, shook hands with the
man and led him into the house. Again the screen door banged in the
dog's face.

Nose pressed against it, he watched the two men go down the wide cool
hall a