Miss Keith, who had risen, seated herself again suddenly. “Why, Tatters, old man, I’ve forgotten your breakfast, and it is almost dinner-time. Where have you been since yesterday? Hunting by the river? You know you should not come in here with a wet coat and muddy paws. Down! Down!” she cried, as the dog, never moving his gaze from her face, crossed the room and, sitting on his haunches before her, rested his fringy wet paws on her lap. “What is the matter? Thorns or burs in your feet?” The dog continued to look at her steadfastly, giving a little whine meantime, but never a wag of his tail. “Tatters!” she exclaimed at last, moistening her lips, which seemed to be unaccountably dry, “I believe you know what is on my mind, and what I’ve been wrestling with in the spirit these three days,—but it’s all settled now, and my mind is free. Come, and I’ll get your dinner bone.” “Settled!” and then the thought struck her, “What would become of Tatters?” A new caretaker might easily be found for the place and cattle, who would also understand the pruning of the cherished vines and fruit trees, but would he understand Tatters, and would Tatters understand or tolerate any one not born of the family? As long as people of the West stock had lived in Gilead, with them had been a sturdy breed of collies and setters, whose sagacity and nosing power were famed throughout the country-side. Now, through chance and short-sightedness, the two breeds had merged in one, and Tatters, of middle age, wise beyond the dog wisdom of his ancestors, was its only representative.