suppose he can be? I've called until
I'm hoarse."

"And I have whistled," said Mr. Maclin, "but he doesn't answer."

"I can't believe that he ran away," said Miss Clementina; "he was so
fond of us."

"And I'm sure he wasn't stolen," said Mr. Maclin. "He wasn't valuable
enough to steal."

"I thought," said Miss Clementina, "that I was glad to have him leave.
He certainly did mess the place up terribly. But I miss him so, I'd be
downright glad to have him come back and dig a hole in the geranium
bed."

"I've a new doormat waiting for him," said Mr. Maclin. "Miss
Clementina, where _do_ you suppose he is?"

"I don't know," said Miss Clementina. "I only wish I did. Why, there's
a little brown dog now. Perhaps----Here, dog, dog!"

Mr. Maclin's whistle supplemented Miss Clementina's call, but the
brown dog took no heed.

"It's some one else's dog," said Miss Clementina. "Don't you see, he
has on a collar?"

But Mr. Maclin had seen something else--a small, brass tag attached to
the dog's collar.

"Miss Clementina," said he, "do you suppose the little brown dog's tax
was paid?"

"Tax?" questioned Miss Clementina.

"Yes, the dog tax, you know."

"I didn't know there was a dog tax," said Miss Clementina.

"I'm afraid," said Mr. Maclin, "that the dog-catcher has caught the
little brown dog."

To Miss Clementina's mind the dog-catcher suggested awful
possibilities. "Oh!" she said, "what _can_ we do?"

"I shall go at once to the pound," said Mr. Maclin, determinedly, "pay
his tax and take him out."

VI.

At the end of an hour Mr. Maclin returned. With him came the little
brown dog. He wriggled joyously, and planted his dirty feet on Miss
Clementina's trailing skirts.

"His manners are just as bad as ever," she said. "But I'm _so_ glad to
have him back. Was it the dog-catcher?"

"It was the dog-catcher," said Mr. Maclin. "But it won't happen again.
I've paid his tax and bought him a collar. See, there's a place on it
for his owner's name. But, of course, I couldn't have it engraved, for
he seems to have no owner. Miss Clementina, don't you think it a pity
for so nice a little dog not to belong to some one?"

There was that in Mr. Maclin's voice that brought a faint flush to
Miss Clementina's cheek.

"I suppose," went on the gentleman, "when he's digging in your
geranium bed he thinks he's _your_ dog, and when he's chewing my
doormat he's probably laboring under the delusion that he's _my_ dog.
Miss