"Good morning, Miss Lambert. You are an early riser. My mother and Edna are hardly awake yet." "Oh, I am always up long before this," returned Bessie, smiling at his evident astonishment, as she stooped to caress Mac, who was fawning on her. "Mac seems to know you," he observed, noticing the dog's friendly greeting. "It is very strange, but he seems to have taken a fancy to me," replied Bessie, and she narrated to Mac's master how the hound had pleaded for admission to her room, and had lain under her table watching her unpack. "That is very odd," observed Richard. "Mac has never bestowed a similar mark of attention on any one but a certain homely old lady that my mother had here for a time, as a sort of charity; she had been a governess, and was very poor. Well, Mac was devoted to the old lady, and she certainly was an estimable sort of woman, but he will have nothing to say to any of Edna's fine friends, and generally keeps out of the way when they come." "An animal's likes and dislikes are very singular," remarked Bessie, looking thoughtfully into Mac's brown eyes. "I believe Mac knows that I am a lover of dogs." "Are you indeed, Miss Lambert? Would you like to see mine?" returned Richard quickly; and his face lighted up as he spoke. He looked younger and better than he did the previous night. His powerful, muscular figure, more conspicuous for strength than grace, showed to advantage in his tweed shooting-coat and knickerbockers, his ordinary morning costume. The look of sullen discomfort had gone, and his face looked less heavy. Bessie thought he hardly seemed his age--nine-and-twenty--and, in spite of his natural awkwardness, he had a boyish frankness of manner that pleased her.