The master took his breakfast with a good appetite that morning, but was perhaps rather more quiet than usual. After breakfast he went up-stairs and put, on a light loose frock, instead of that which he commonly wore, which was a close-fitting and rather stylish one. On his way to school he met Alminy Cutterr, who happened to be walking in the other direction. “Good-morning, Miss Cutter,” he said; for she and another young lady had been introduced to him, on a former occasion, in the usual phrase of polite society in presenting ladies to gentlemen,--“Mr. Langdon, let me make y' acquainted with Miss Cutterr;--let me make y' acquainted with Miss Braowne.” So he said, “Good-morning”; to which she replied, “Good-mornin', Mr. Langdon. Haow's your haalth?” The answer to this question ought naturally to have been the end of the talk; but Alminy Cutterr lingered and looked as if she had something more on her mind. A young fellow does not require a great experience to read a simple country-girl's face as if it were a sign-board. Alminy was a good soul, with red cheeks and bright eyes, kind-hearted as she could be, and it was out of the question for her to hide her thoughts or feelings like a fine lady. Her bright eyes were moist and her red cheeks paler than their wont, as she said, with her lips quivering, “Oh, Mr. Langdon, them boys 'll be the death of ye, if ye don't take caar!” “Why, what's the matter, my dear?” said Mr. Bernard.--Don't think there was anything very odd in that “my dear,” at the second interview with a village belle;--some of these woman-tamers call a girl “My dear,” after five minutes' acquaintance, and it sounds all right as they say it. But you had better not try it at a venture. It sounded all right to Alminy, as Mr. Bernard said it.--“I 'll tell ye what's the mahtterr,” she said, in a frightened voice. “Ahbner 's go'n' to car' his dog, 'n' he'll set him on ye'z sure 'z y' 'r' alive. 'T's the same cretur that haaf eat up Eben Squires's little Jo, a year come nex' Faast day.” Now this last statement was undoubtedly overcolored; as little Jo Squires was running about the village,--with an ugly scar on his arm, it is true, where the beast had caught him with his teeth, on the occasion of the child's taking liberties with him, as he had been accustomed to do with a good-tempered Newfoundland dog, who seemed to like being pulled and hauled round by children. After this the creature was commonly muzzled, and, as he was fed on raw meat chiefly, was always ready for a fight, which he was occasionally indulged in, when anything stout enough to match him could be found in any of the neighboring villages.