was the first time Leonard had looked bright.
‘So you expect us to sanction your private dog stealing?’ said Aubrey.
‘I have been watching for his mistress to come back,’ said Leonard; ‘but she must have passed an hour ago, and she does not deserve to have him, for she never looked back for him; and he had run up to me, frisking and making much of me, as if he had found an old friend.’
‘Perhaps it will run home when we move.’
No such thing; it trotted close at Leonard’s heels, and entered the house with them. Barbara was consulted, and on Leonard’s deposition that the dog’s mistress was in deep mourning, opined that she could be no other than the widow of an officer, who during his lingering illness had been often laid upon the beach, and had there played with his little dogs. This one, evidently very young, had probably, in the confusion of its puppy memory, taken the invalid for its lost master.
‘Stupid little thing,’ said Aubrey; ‘just like an undersized lady’s toy.’
‘It knows its friends. These little things have twice the sense of overgrown dogs as big and as stupid as jackasses.’
A retort from Leonard was welcome in Ethel’s ears, and she quite developed his conversational powers, in an argument on the sagacity of all canine varieties. It was too late to send the little animal home; and he fondled and played with it till bed-time, when he lodged it in his own room; and the attachment was so strong, that it was with a deep sigh, that at breakfast he accepted Aubrey’s offer of conveying it home.
‘There she is! he exclaimed in the midst, gazing from the window.
‘And see the perfection of the animal!’ added Aubrey, pointing to a broad-backed waddling caricature of the little black fairy.
‘Restitution must be made, little as she deserves you, you little jewel,’ said Leonard, picking up the object of his admiration. ‘I’ll take you out.’
‘No, no; I am not so infectious,’ said Ethel, tying on her hat; ‘I had better do it.’
And after Leonard’s parting embrace to his favourite, she received it; and quickly overtaking the pensive steps of the lady, arrested her progress with, ‘I beg your pardon, but I think this is your dog.’
‘Poor little Mab! as the dog struggled to get to her, and danced gladly round her. ‘I missed her last night, and was coming to look for her.’
‘She joined one of our party,’ said Ethel; ‘and he was not strong enough to follow you. Indeed, he has had scarlet fever, so perhaps it was better not. But he has taken great care of the little dog, and hopes it is not the worse.’
‘Thank you. I wish poor Mab may always meet such kind friends,’ said the lady, sadly.
‘She secured her welcome,’ said Ethel. ‘We were very grateful to her, for it was the first thing that has seemed to interest him since his illness; and he has just lost both his parents.’
‘Ah! Thank you.’
Ethel wondered at herself for having been so communicative; but the sweet sad face and look of interest had drawn her words out; and on her return she made such a touching history of the adventure, that Leonard listened earnestly, and Aubrey looked subdued.
When they went out Leonard refused to spread his rug in that only bed of pulverized shingle; and Ethel respected his avoidance of it as delicacy to her whose husband had no doubt often occupied that spot.
‘He is a thorough gentleman,’ said she, as she walked away with Aubrey.
‘He might be an Eton fellow,’ was the significant reply.
‘I wonder what made him so!’ said Ethel, musingly.
‘Looking at Tom,’ returned Aubrey, not in jest.
‘Even with that advantage, I don’t quite see where he learnt that refined consideration.’
‘Pshaw, Ethel! The light of nature would show that to any one but a stupex.’
Ethel was not sorry that such were Aubrey’s views of courtesy, but all thought of that subject was soon lost in the pursuit of ammonites.
‘I wonder what Leonard will have picked up now?’ they speculated, as they turned homewards with their weighty baskets, but what was their amazement, when Leonard waved his hand, pointing to the little black dog again at his feet!
‘She is mine!’ he exclaimed, ‘my own! Mrs. Gisborne has given her to me; and she is to be the happiest little mite going!’
‘Given!’
‘Yes. She came as soon as you were gone, and sat by me, and talked for an hour, but she goes tomorrow to live with an old hag of an aunt.’
‘Really, you seem to have been on confidential terms.’
‘I mean that she must be a nuisance, because she doesn’t like dogs; so that Mrs. Gisborne can only take the old one, which she could never part with. So she wanted to give Mab to some one who would be kind to her; and she has come to the right shop; hasn’t she, my little queen?’
‘I thought she almost wished it this morning,’ said Ethel, ‘when she heard how you and Mab had taken to each other: but it is a very choice present; the creature looks to me to be of a very fine sort.’
‘Now, Miss May, how could you know that?’
‘Why, by her own deportment! Don’t you know the aristocratic look that all high-bred animals have—even
