"If that's the way you feel over there, you'd better come here to The Savins and stay," he suggested. The dimples came back into Cicely's cheeks. "We should fight, Allyn." "Who cares? It's only skin deep," he returned, with a sudden gravity which surprised her. She looked at him steadily for a moment. Then she held out her hand to him. "Let's not any more, then." He touched her fingers gingerly, gave them a sudden squeeze and then plunged his fists into his pockets. "Come on and ride, if you must," he said ungraciously. She had never seen him in a brighter mood. He chattered ceaselessly, quaint stories of his schoolboy friends, quainter jokes and whimsies and bits of advice for her edification. In such moods, Allyn was well-nigh irresistible, and it was with genuine regret that Cicely turned her face towards home. Her regret, however, was as nothing in comparison with the consternation that seized her, as she entered the house. Before the fireplace in the hall, there always lay the skin of a superb tiger. To-night, before the tiger lay Melchisedek, and before Melchisedek lay a triangular scrap of brownish fur. As Cicely entered, the dog looked up with a bland smile; but the smile changed to a snarl, as she came near and stooped to view the ruin he had wrought. Then he rose, gripped his booty in his sinful little teeth, and trotted before her to the library door. On the threshold, he appeared to come to a sudden realization that justice was in store for him. His mien changed. The pointed, silky little ears drooped, and walking on three legs, stiffly and as if with infinite difficulty, he preceded his mistress to the fireside and laid the severed ear of the tiger on the floor at Theodora's feet, while Cicely exclaimed penitently,-- "Cousin Theodora, what will you do with us? It's bad enough to have me stranded on your threshold, without having Melchisedek hunting big game in your front hall." The words were flippant; but the tears were near the surface. Billy interposed, for he saw Theodora's color come, and he knew that the rug, his own contribution to her college room, was one of her dearest possessions. He shook his head at the six-pound culprit who stood before him, waggling his stumpy tail in smug satisfaction over the success of his undertaking. "Change his name to Nimrod, Cis," he said gravely; "and send for Babe to mend her first emergency case." CHAPTER SEVEN "Where is Babe?" Dr. McAlister asked, one noon in late May. "Here." Phebe's voice came from the piazza outside. "Can you ride over to Bannook Bars, this afternoon?" "Yes, I suppose so. What for?" "As substitute for me. Mrs. Richardson has consumed all her pills, and she wants some more." "Why doesn't she get them, then? You're not an apothecary."