A mile and a half from the station, the Dogs' Home stood in a pleasant place under the lee of a wood. Fair meadows ringed it about, and in the bright sunshine the red-brick house and out-buildings looked cheerful and promising. Slowly the two passed up the well-kept drive. With his little white dog in his arms, Anthony Lyveden was shown everything. A jolly fair-haired girl--the superintendent--conducted him everywhere. The dogs--all sizes and shapes--welcomed her coming. Of Patch she made a great deal. "You must be very proud of him," she said to Anthony. "I am. And--we're great friends. I hope he won't fret much." "A little at first, probably. You'll be coming to see him?" "Once a week, always," said Lyveden. "Oftener if I can." Presently they returned to the office, where Anthony paid four guineas and received a receipt. Patch was entered in a big book, together with his age and description. Another column received his owner's name and address. The girl hesitated. "We like," she said, "to have the telephone number, in case of accidents." "I'll send it to you to-night." The entry was blotted, and the girl rose. The formalities were at an end. Lyveden picked up his hat. Patch greeted the familiar signal joyously. Clearly the call was over. It had been a good visit--the best they had ever paid. No other place they had been to was full of dogs. Yet to be out and about with his master was better still. He leapt up and down, rejoicing. Anthony caught him from one of his bounds, held the white scrap very close and let him lick his nose. Then he bade him be a good dog and handed him to the girl. She received him tenderly. "I'm very much obliged to you," he said. "Good day. I'll let myself out. It--it'll be better." One more caress, and he passed out into the hall--blindly. There had been a look in the bright brown eyes that tore his heart. For a moment Patch fought desperately. Then he heard a door opened and listened intently. A draught swept, and the door closed heavily. With a sudden wrench he was out of the girl's arms and across the shadowy hall. For a moment he stood sniffing, his nose clapped to the sill of the front door. Then he lifted up his voice and wept bitterly. * * * * * In the long mirror, half-way up the front staircase, Major Anthony Lyveden, D.S.O., surveyed himself stealthily. "Not much the matter with the kit," he said grudgingly. That was largely because there was nothing the matter with the man.