Gilead had often encountered in the _Daily Post_--sandwiched, say, between a heart-moving appeal on behalf of the outcast and houseless, and a last drowning cry for help from a soul almost submerged--a plea for some dog or cat seeking a kind home, and had reflected on the curious variety and varied quality of the petitions which a medium for benevolence was calculated to attract. He hoped that those, thus fondly appealing to charity for their animal beloveds, were in the habit of scrutinizing the lists in which their advertisements appeared, and of justifying their own title to help in one form by vouchsafing it in another. But he believed he had always noticed that an excessive devotion to animals entailed a rather ironic attitude towards the needs of the human family, and it was in no very sympathetic mood, therefore, that he read the first words of the following advertisement, which his secretary one morning pointed out to him:-- “_Will anyone give a kind home to Pilot, a dog. O, please do help! This is genuine. No money-lenders need apply. Address Judy, Marshlock Old Rectory, Shipton-on-Thames._” “Why do you show me this, Nestle?” he said, looking up. “Excuse me, sir,” said the secretary. “Have you read to the end?” Gilead bent to the paper again, and smiled. “What a very odd advertisement!” he said. “Is it nonsense or innocence, do you think?” The secretary shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Supposing we ask Miss Halifax’s opinion, Mr Balm?” Gilead said “certainly,” and leaned back in his chair as the secretary carried the paper to the young lady, who was engaged at her desk over correspondence. “Do you take that for a hoax, Miss Halifax?” The beautiful amanuensis read and considered. “No, Mr Balm,” she said. “This was written, I am sure, by some distressed child, whose people take in the _Daily Post_. If it were a hoax, some covering address would have been given.” Gilead rose. “Give me the paper, please,” he said. She smiled, rather wistfully. “I knew the very suggestion of a child would win you,” she said. He looked at her kindly. “It is your feminine perspicacity that wins me,” he said. “I cannot tell you how it touches me to find us all three in such accord over this business of humanitarianism, and so superior, in its pursuit, to ignoble jealousies and misunderstandings.” That was a tribute to the secretary, who had never shewn the least resentment over the lady’s inclusion in the inner confidences of his Chief. Nestle stood quiet a moment or two, as Gilead, having spoken, left the room; and then, moving softly, addressed a word to the amanuensis. She waved him away; and he saw at once, to his curious concern, that she was crying.