The fact was she had purchased it when but a small puppy, insisting at first that no one should touch it but herself; but soon becoming tired of so helpless and troublesome a nursling, she had gladly yielded to my entreaties to be allowed to take charge of it; and I, by carefully nursing the little creature from infancy to adolescence, of course, had obtained its affections: a reward I should have greatly valued, and looked upon as far outweighing all the trouble I had had with it, had not poor Snap’s grateful feelings exposed him to many a harsh word and many a spiteful kick and pinch from his owner, and were he not now in danger of being “put away” in consequence, or transferred to some rough, stony-hearted master. But how could I help it? I could not make the dog hate me by cruel treatment, and she would not propitiate him by kindness. However, while I thus sat, working away with my pencil, Mrs. Murray came, half-sailing, half-bustling, into the room. “Miss Grey,” she began,—“dear! how can you sit at your drawing such a day as this?” (She thought I was doing it for my own pleasure.) “I _wonder_ you don’t put on your bonnet and go out with the young ladies.” “I think, ma’am, Miss Murray is reading; and Miss Matilda is amusing herself with her dogs.” “If you would try to amuse Miss Matilda yourself a little more, I think she would not be driven to seek amusement in the companionship of dogs and horses and grooms, so much as she is; and if you would be a little more cheerful and conversable with Miss Murray, she would not so often go wandering in the fields with a book in her hand. However, I don’t want to vex you,” added she, seeing, I suppose, that my cheeks burned and my hand trembled with some unamiable emotion. “Do, pray, try not to be so touchy—there’s no speaking to you else. And tell me if you know where Rosalie is gone: and why she likes to be so much alone?” “She says she likes to be alone when she has a new book to read.”