The next day was a hard one. He was beginning to realize that he was lost. He ran more slowly, looked eagerly at every passer-by, and seemed half demented. At night he stopped at a home where the lights had just been lighted, and some pretty children seemed flitting from room to room. He whined at the back door. A flaxen-haired little girl opened it. “Oh, mamma,” said the child, “here is a big black dog, and I know he is hungry! May I feed him?” “No,” replied the woman, “take a whip and send him off. I will have no lean stray dogs about this house.” “But he looks hungry, mother,” pleaded little Emma Bascomb, “and I know he won’t bite.” Mrs. Bascomb, pity it is to tell it, was a very pious person, never failing to be present at prayer-meetings, always deeply interested in the heathen, and most helpful at sewing societies of the church. She never fed stray cats or dogs, as she did not wish them to stay at her house. She did not remember that God made them, and that He lets not a sparrow fall to the ground without His notice, and she forgot that she was to emulate Him. Mrs. Bascomb varied her treatment of stray dogs and cats. Sometimes she used a long black whip, sometimes pails of water. On this occasion she threw on Douglas, already weak and hungry, a pail of cold water, and sent him frightened and hurt away from her door. Emma protested. “When I have a home of my own, mamma,” she said, “I will never turn away a dog or a cat hungry.” The child knew that it was useless to say more, as a stray cat had stayed about the house for a week, and Mrs. Bascomb had refused to feed it, burning up the scraps from the table lest some starving animal might be tempted to remain. And yet the Bascombs had family prayers, and asked God to provide clothes for the needy and food for the hungry! Douglas was beginning to learn the sorrows of the poor and homeless. He longed to see some familiar face, to hear some familiar voice. He went on and on, and it began to rain. It was almost sleet, and the dog, used to a warm fire, shivered and longed for shelter. Approaching a large rambling house with a shed attached, Douglas ran under it for cover, and crouched down at the side under a bench. A man came out with a lamp. Evidently he had been drinking, for his step was unsteady. He had come out to close the shed door, and espying the dog gave him a kick with his hard boot. “Get out, you scoundrel! What are you doing here?” he said gruffly, and poor Douglas ran as though a gun had been fired at him.