At Julia's side was a slight touch. She cried: "Pitchouné!" He put his paws on her knees and looked up into her face. "Brunet has brought him here," said Sabron, "and that means the good chap is attending to his own love-making." Julia laid her hand on Pitchouné's head. "He will love the Normandy beach, Charles." "He will love the forests," said Sabron; "there are rabbits there." On the little dog's head the two hands met and clasped. "Pitchouné is the only one in the world who is not de trop," said Julia gently. Sabron, lifting her hand again to his lips, kissed it long, looking into her eyes. Between that great mystery of the awakening to be fulfilled, they drew near to each other--nearer. Pitchouné sat before them, waiting. He wagged his tail and waited. No one noticed him. He gave a short bark that apparently disturbed no one. Pitchouné had become de trop. He was discreet. With sympathetic eyes he gazed on his beloved master and new mistress, then turned and quietly trotted across the room to the hearth-rug, sitting there meditatively for a few minutes blinking at the empty grate, where on the warm spring day there was no fire. Pitchouné lay down before the fireless hearth, his head forward on his paws, his beautiful eyes still discreetly turned away from the lovers. He drew a long contented breath as dogs do before settling into repose. His thrilling adventures had come to an end. Before fires on the friendly hearth of the Louis XIII château, where hunting dogs were carved in the stone above the chimney, Pitchouné might continue to dream in the days to come. He would hunt rabbits in the still forests above the wheat fields, and live again in the firelight his great adventures on the desert, the long runs across the sands on his journey back to France. Now he closed his eyes. As a faithful friend he rested in the atmosphere of happiness about him. He had been the sole companion of a lonely man, now he had become part of a family. THE END