He cried so that he found he was beginning to make little sounds in spite of himself, and he tried to smother them, because he did not know what the _forestieri_ did to children who made a noise—perhaps held them under the rushing streams of water. But just at the moment when he was trying to stifle his sobs and prevent their becoming wails, a strange thing happened. The door was pushed open and some one came into the room. At least, he heard a sound of feet on the floor, though he did not see any one even when he peeped. Feet? They were not Nicola’s feet, but softer and more pattering. He held his breath to listen. They came to his bed and stopped. And then he heard something else—a soft, familiar panting, almost as familiar as the donkey’s stirring in the stable. He sat up in bed. “_E un cane_” (It is a dog,) he cried. And the answer was a leap, and a rough, dear, hairy body was beside him, while a warm, excitedly lapping, affectionate tongue caressed his hands, his face, his neck. For in some mysterious way the lonely dog at the entrance gate had slipped his collar, and in rushing through the house to find some one to love and rejoice over had heard the little smothered sobs, and come in at once to answer and comfort him, knowing in his dog heart that here was one who was lonely and exiled too. And Piccino fell upon him and caught him in his arms, dragging him close to his side, rubbing his wet cheeks upon the rough, hairy coat, and so holding him, nestled against and pillowed his head upon him, rescued from his loneliness and terror almost as he might have been if the dog had been the donkey. CHAPTER III It was a great comfort to go to sleep embracing and embraced by a shaggy friend of one’s own world, but when the morning came it seemed that, somehow, to the _forestieri_ it appeared a different thing. When Nicola came in she uttered an exclamation of horror. “The dirty little thing!” she cried. “Ah, my goodness, he has been asleep all night with that dusty, muddy dog! What _will_ my lady say? Look at his face, and the sheets, and her ladyship’s jacket!” Piccino sat up in his silk and lace tent, holding on to the dog. Something was wrong, he saw, though he understood nothing. What could it be? “Get out!” cried Nicholson, slapping the dog vigorously. “Get out! How in the world did you get here?” and she pushed the shaggy friend off the bed and ran after him, driving him out of the room. Lady Aileen met her on the threshold. “What is that animal doing here?” she asked. “Indeed, my lady, I don’t know,” said Nicholson. “He never did such a thing before. He must have sniffed out the child. He has been sleeping with him all night.” “Sleeping with him!” exclaimed Lady Aileen. She stepped into the bedroom and stood for a moment gazing at Piccino. The dog had been both muddy and dusty. Both Piccino and the bed revealed unmistakable signs of the fact. “Dear me!” said her ladyship. “Nicholson, take him at once and wash him.”