Moved by her longings, the girl continued across the living-room; opened, then closed behind her the bedroom door and stopped beside the bed. Its absolute flatness, the neat roll of the comforter between its foot-posts, the prim set of the pillows at its head--all filled her with realization keen as actual disappointment. She bunched up the pillows, threw herself upon them and shook out the comforter over her. With a sob, she tried to clasp to her heart the delusion that a twisted little shape lay within her arms. Before she fell asleep she realized that the puppy had followed her into the room. He had hidden under the bed, evidently, until eased of fear over his temerity. Her resistance of the whimpers with which he soon grew emboldened kept her awake for a time. What was he--stupid, brute atom--that he presumed to offer comfort for her human loss? And had not he himself deprived her? Quite roughly she pushed away his exaggeratedly shivering body and repulsed his suggestion that he, too, was lonely. Let him continue to hide from her sight--let him die of his loneliness! And yet---- In those little-girl days of long ago, had _she_ died, willing though she might have been to offer that apology for her existence? What would she have done if the father whom she had deprived had not been merciful to her? A damp nose in her down-stretched palm emphasized the question. She should remember that the creature wasn’t hers to mistreat. Jack would want his dog given the benefit of every doubt. She picked up the recent bundle of canine pathos--now one of exuberant joy--and permitted him to wriggle down upon the coverlet. A sound louder than his dream barks, then a movement more definite than the twitching of the four feet co-ordinating with the speed at which he imagined himself running, awakened her. Against the slivers of light which outlined the door-frame, she saw that the puppy was standing at attention--hind legs thrust well back, bristles stiff, nose close to the sill. She sat up and shook herself wider awake. Someone had entered the sitting-room and made a light. She would better announce her presence inside than have the dog bark the announcement for her. With the idea of returning to her own chamber, she gathered her dressing-gown close around her and opened the door. There she stood absolutely still. Everything seemed to halt with her feet--the beat of her heart, all capability to move or speak, even any sense of surprise. Powerless as she felt looked John Cabot. He was sitting in Jack’s arm-chair, beside the lamp; was looking at her. The parts of Jack’s broken, pace-setting toy were spread out on the table. In both hands he clutched the torn magazine in which the boy had drawn a circle around the dog of his choice. He was pale and gaunt.