“Come, Miss Gordon,” said her escort, “you really must not take on like this; you have only known him three months, and----” “Don’t say he was only a dog!” she interrupted indignantly. “Well then, I won’t, and I feel most awfully cut up myself. Yes,” in answer to her upward glance, “I am indeed. It is something to know that his end was instantaneous--he scarcely suffered at all.” “And how is this to be broken to them?” “Mr. Brande is coming after us. I will go and tell him, if you will wait here. No, on second thoughts, that would never do to leave you alone, and that brute in the wood--not that I believe he would face a human being. Ah, here comes your uncle.” The tragedy was gradually broken to Mrs. Brande, and deep was her grief when her little dead dog was brought in, and laid at her feet. All the native household mourned (whether sincerely, or from their servile instincts, who shall say?). The only one who did not mourn was Sweet, who candidly exclaimed, as she cut a happy caper-- “Nasty ugly dog! I am _so_ glad he is dead!” Fortunately Mrs. Brande did not hear her, or she would probably have sent her straight out of the house, to test the comforts of the dâk bungalow. Poor Mrs. Brande had cried so much that she was not fit to be seen; she did not appear at dinner. Next morning Ben’s unfinished sketch called forth another flood of tears, and she was not presentable all the forenoon. Meanwhile Sweet posed for her portrait, and chattered incessantly. She had been to a large party, and no other little girl had worn gold bangles, or pink garters with satin rosettes. So she had frankly assured her audience, Mark and Honor--the latter was surrounded by quite a stack of books, and intent on solving an acrostic in the _World_. “The tea was pretty good,” continued Sweet, affably. “I got nine crackers and a fan, and a little china doll quite naked; but the sweets were not Pelitis’s, only bazaar-made, I am sure. Percy Holmes tried to kiss me, and I scratched his face, and he cried. Such a Molly! I shall always call him Baby Holmes!” Thus she babbled on garrulously, with her infantile gossip. Suddenly she seemed struck by an important thought, and gravely asked, with a widening of her big violet eyes-- “What does detrimental mean--de-tri-men-tal?” pronouncing the word as if she had got it by heart. “You had better ask Miss Gordon,” replied Mark. “Miss Gordon, there is a dictionary at your hand.” “Oh, what _does_ it matter?” exclaimed Honor, who was beginning to be rather distrustful of Sweet’s seemingly artless questions. “Find out, find out!” cried the imp, swinging her legs impatiently to and fro. “I want to know, and I am sitting very nicely--am I not?” Mark made a sign to Miss Gordon to humour her, adding-- “I never saw such a small person for picking up big words.” “Here it is,” said Honor, at length, “and much good may it do you!” reading out--“Detrimental--injurious, hurtful, prejudiced.”