"Well done, old Bill." And, looking up, Bessie saw Richard Sefton leaning on the gate, with his dogs round him. "Don't move, Miss Lambert," he continued hastily; "stand where you are till I join you." And as Bessie looked rather surprised at this peremptory speech, he walked quickly to her side and put his hand on her shoulder. "A friend, Leo. Excuse my unceremoniousness, Miss Lambert, but Leo needs an introduction;" and at his words a huge mastiff, who had been eyeing Bessie in a dubious manner, walked quietly up to her. "Will it be safe for me to pat him?" asked Bessie, as she looked at the big tawny head and heavy jowl of the magnificent beast; but the brown sunken eyes had a friendly expression in them. "Oh, yes, Leo will be as quiet as a lamb; and what is more, he will never forget you. You may go within the reach of his chain any day, and he will behave to you like a gentleman. Leo is an aristocrat, and never forgets _noblesse oblige_." "He is a splendid animal," returned Bessie; and then she noticed the other dogs. They were all there: Gelert and Brand, and Juno and her puppies, and Spot and Tim. "We have been for a long walk," observed Richard, as they turned their faces homeward. "The dogs have been wild with spirits, and I had some difficulty with them at first. You see, they make the most of their weekly holiday." "What do you do on a wet Sunday?" asked Bessie curiously. "Well, I smoke a pipe with them in the stable, and so give them the pleasure of my company. I do hate disappointing dumb animals, Miss Lambert--they have their feelings as well as we have, and I think we ought to behave handsomely to them. I remember when I was quite a little fellow my mother taught me that." "Your mother!" in some surprise, for somehow Mrs. Sefton never gave Bessie the impression that her relations with Richard were of the motherly sort. "Oh, I mean my then mother," he returned hastily, as though answering her unspoken thought. "I was very young when she died, but I have never forgotten her. She was not a lady by birth, you know; only a farmer's or yeoman's daughter, but there is not a lady living who is prettier or sweeter than she was." "I am glad you feel like that to your mother," replied Bessie, in a sympathetic voice that seemed to ask for further confidence. Richard Sefton had never spoken of his mother to any one before. What could have drawn the beloved name from his lips? Was it this girl's soothing presence, or the stillness of the hour and the quiet beauty of the scene round him? Richard was impressionable by nature, and possibly each of these things influenced him. It was a new pleasure to speak to a kindly listener of the memories that lay hidden in his faithful heart.