“Feed the dogs separately, keep them apart for a time and the stray bones raked up, and I think the feud will blow over,” said Anne’s father. Her mother thought differently, for Lumberlegs, the boisterous puppy, and Bigness, the full-grown man dog, standing thirty-five inches at the shoulder, were entirely different beings. She had watched him at play with Tommy and noticed the way he eyed with resentment everything that came near. She knew that when he followed Anne to the woods she had more than police protection. He was of the faithful, jealous disposition, that must be the only one of his kind in a home that gave wide range for wandering, not one of several house fourfoots that recognized a smaller dog as master, and lived literally in a town of numerous dogs. The feeding separately matter was easily done, for Waddles persistently refused to leave the cellar except on stealthy trips toward evening, or when he was sure that his foe was out of range. How he knew this was a puzzle to Anne, for he could neither see nor hear from the depths of the coal-bin, into which fastness he crawled through the small, square door at the bottom made for the shovel. She soon realized, however, that his keen scent told him. Lumberlegs also knew quite well when Waddles was in his retreat, for though he did not care to venture down the steep stone steps because his back legs were rather sprawly, he would walk past the door growling softly, with bristling hair, and then give a broken bark and, turning, kick grass into the air in the direction of the cellar with a gesture of contempt. The two weeks that followed were ones of trial for Anne. She was in perpetual fear that the dogs would meet, for she grew more sure every day that “making-up” was out of the question. Even though Lumberlegs was in his yard, Waddles would not follow her to the village. He forsook his friends along the route upon whom he had never before failed to call daily, sturdily going the rounds alone if Anne omitted her walk. It was not until he ceased to follow her that Anne fully realized what a friend she had lost, one who was self-reliant, faithful, and wise, giving no trouble, asking nothing beyond the trifling care his rare ailments needed, and the affection his intelligence won. For Waddles knew the speech of House People as well as Anne interpreted Heart of Nature’s language, and he and his mistress had a perfect, mutual understanding. If Anne, wearing her common hat, said, “Do you want to go to the post-office?” he would give a cheer and start off down the hill before her, waiting on the office steps; while if she said store or market instead of post-office, he would wait by the respective doors. If, on the contrary, she wore a different hat or said, “Not to-day, Waddlekins, I’m going to town,” he might sometimes go with her to the gate but never farther.