Mr. Hugh had offered to stay with Ben in Miss Jule’s place and Letty to watch with her, but a grim “No” had been her answer. In the middle of the night Ben grew worse, and in spite of his courage he groaned with pain, and stretched his paws to his mistress as if for help, but could not otherwise move. She roused Martin and sent him to telephone the doctor, but the answer came that he was out and might not return until morning. Miss Jule had felt from the first that Ben was fatally ill; now she questioned herself as to how far she should allow him to suffer under the chance that he might recover for a time, and thus spare her pain. More time passed, again he stretched out his paws and turned a pitiful look upon her that said, “Help me, mistress, I cannot bear the pain.” “Yes, old fellow, missy will help you. Put your head down and I will rub it--so. Martin, go to my locked closet and bring me the bottle labelled chloroform. Yes, that is right; now that horse sponge there and the bit of newspaper.” She took the bottle with a hand that shook, poured some upon the sponge that she had thrust in a cone made of twisted paper. Then she raised the feverish nose resting upon her knee and gently covered it saying softly, “Good-by my Ben, good-by dear Mr. Wolf.” That was all. A healthy animal often struggles at the scent of chloroform, but to the very ill it brings swift peace. Ben Uncas was in the happy hunting-grounds which were not far away. Then brave Miss Jule broke down and laid her head upon the tawny one and sobbed aloud. She was sitting thus when the doctor, having received her summons on his tardy return home, crossed the floor with rapid tread. At first the doctor said that she should have had patience and given the medicine a longer chance to work. But later, that she had done well in stopping useless pain, for the sickness was typhoid distemper, and nothing could have saved old Ben. “I suppose that you are laughing to yourself, and thinking what an old fool I am to care so,” said Miss Jule, leaning wearily against the door post, a wild object with straws sticking in her hair, red-eyed and dishevelled in the dawning light. “I laugh at grief for a dog?” answered the doctor. “Possibly once but not now, or ever again. Look at this,” and opening his watch he showed her the miniature of a dog painted on the inside cover. It was the head of a finely bred bull terrier with soft brown and white markings, and a broad browed face, for the technical term muzzle could not be applied to one having all the thoughtful intelligence of a human being. “That is Jim,” said the doctor, speaking slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the picture.