Anne, awakened suddenly from a late sleep, stood in the middle of her room half dazed, not knowing whether the sounds she heard belonged to a dream or to reality. Then the sound came again, the awful choking, snarling struggle of fighting dogs, always a horrible sound, but doubly so when you know the dogs. Anne ran to call her father, her heart pounding as if it would jump out of her mouth. Fortunately, he was already dressed and out, and as she almost fell downstairs, hardly touching the steps, the noise ceased and she heard her father’s voice say to Baldy: “Put him in the old hay barn until I decide what to do. I will attend to Waddles.” Then the door opened and her father entered with a distressed face, carrying the beagle in his arms. “Is he killed?” she gasped. “No, neither very badly hurt I hope; but quite exhausted. I never shall forget the expression of his face as he clung to that great jaw that was dragging him to his death; it was like that of a man who was hopelessly fighting for his honour and home. “This is no common dog-fight, little daughter, where both dogs should be punished and tied up until they come to their senses. Waddles has been with us so long that he has almost human feelings and reason; to thrust him out to be a mere dog again would be wicked. Lumberlegs must go!” At these words Waddles, who was lying quite still on the door-mat where his master had laid him, opened his eyes and wagged his tail, with very significant if rather feeble thumps. * * * * * Though Waddles rallied very quickly, the bites on his neck, which had been this time collarless, had sunk in very deep, and though he was gradually growing less moody, he did not go far from the house or take up his old ways, and seemed quite conscious that Lumberlegs, though invisible, had not yet left the premises. One warm night about a week after the fight, when doors and windows were left open, and the dogs roved about at will, Anne waked to find that Waddles was sitting beside her bed in such a position that her hand that hung off the edge rested on his neck. “What is the matter, old fellow, do you want a drink?” she asked, patting him; but as she did so she felt that one side of his neck was burning hot and swelled into a hard lump. Next day the veterinary came and pronounced Waddles a very sick dog, said that he had been poisoned by the deepest bite, and must have his neck lanced and be carefully treated, or he would die. “I’ll take him right along with me to my hospital now if your man will put him in my buggy. He’ll have the best of treatment, and it will be cheaper than keeping him here and having me running over. Besides, you couldn’t take care of him; it’s too much bother for you to dirty your fingers with,” said the doctor, kindly, for he saw the distress in Anne’s face.