“Why didn’t I like it?” asked Happy, now also quite awake, and with great energy. “There was enough to eat, I suppose, but how, and when, and where? I should like you to tell me that first.” As Waddles didn’t know, he could not tell, so Happy took the floor, or rather the bearskin, and began her story, occasionally punctuating it by pauses caused by stopping to give her paws an extra washing. “Melody, my mother, was not born in a kennel, though after she had great sport and hunted a few years, she came to live at Hilltop. I was born there, and the difference between living in a kennel and running free begins even before your eyes are open. [Illustration] “Of course you’ve looked into the kennel yard four acres big, inside the tall wire fence and seen the grass-run, and the swimming-pool, but have you ever been inside the long red house made into rooms with many windows and doors, and a little yard by each?” “No,” said Waddles, “I’ve often tried, but some one always drove me away, though once, when I had stepped inside the door, I ran down a long hallway when a big black and white setter, who seemed to be all by himself in a small room, told me I’d best get out while I could, for maybe if I waited I couldn’t, and begged me to bring him a bone next time I came.” “That was old Antonio, a boarder,” said Happy, looking into the fire as if she saw the past in it. “His master used to have a country house like this, and he raised Antonio from a pup, took him hunting every leaf fall, and let him lie on the hearth-rug winter nights, but when the master sold the house and went away, he sent Antonio to board at Hilltop until he should come back for him. He promised to come soon, but that was the summer that I was a pup, and Antonio is still waiting. “Of course he is comfortable in a way; he and Rufus, the Irish setter with red hair, have a good room together, each with a boxed straw bed, and a private yard to lie in when they are not turned into the great yard for running, but they are in chain when they sleep at night, and when they are fed, and that is a grievous thing to an old dog who has once run free, and owned his bones. My mother told me so then, but being born a kennel dog I did not understand.” [Illustration] “What were the other rooms in that long house?” asked Waddles, now sitting up wide awake and interested. “I saw more doors than there are in this whole house or at Miss Jule’s, and though I was in a hurry, I sniffed good crisp brown smells.”