“Never, never!” exclaimed the Madame indignantly; “no other ever could or ever shall fill his place. And he shall have a splendid funeral,” she went on, with a fresh burst of grief, “the finest casket money can buy, and a white satin shroud; a monument over his dear little grave too; and I’ll put on mourning as I would for a child.” For a moment Floy was silent with surprise; then recovering herself, “This is handsomer than satin, Madame,” she said, gently touching the silky floss of the dog’s own natural coat; “and what a pity to bury it: would it not be better to have it stuffed? for then you need not lose your pet entirely, but can keep him here, caress him, and deck him with ribbons as you have been used to doing.” “Bless you for the suggestion!” cried the mourner, drying her tears. “So I can; and it will be better than hiding him away out of my sight. “Mary, you needn’t send the order for the casket or the digging of the grave; but, instead, go out at once and inquire who is the best taxidermist in the city.” Left alone with the Madame, Floy set herself to the task of persuading her out of the absurd notion of putting on mourning, her main argument being that it was an unwholesome dress and the lady’s health already poor enough. “That is true; nobody knows what I suffer every day of my life,” assented the Madame; “and as I’m not going to quite lose the darling,” hugging the dead dog lovingly in her arms as she spoke, “I’ll give it up; that is, I’ll wear white instead; and you shall stay all the same and make me some lovely white morning dresses, tucked, ruffled, and trimmed with elegant lace.” “How immense she will look in them!” was Floy’s mental comment; but she wisely kept her thoughts to herself. In the mean time Mary was executing her commission with such promptness and energy that within an hour Frisky’s remains had been taken away--the Madame parting from them with many tears and caresses--and the insignia of mourning removed from the outside of the house. “I don’t know how to thank you enough, miss,” the maid said aside to Floy. “It was just awful to me--the idea of a grand funeral for a dog, and all the neighbors lookin’ on an’ thinkin’ us a pack o’ fools. I wish in my heart you lived here all the time, for you can do more to make the Madame hear reason than all the rest of us put together.” “Can that be so?” said Floy. “I should not have expected my influence to be nearly so great as yours.” “Nor I,” said the maid, and Floy wondered at the earnest, curious gaze she bent upon her. Mary was thinking of the miniature to which the young girl bore so strong a resemblance; but perceiving that Floy observed her scrutiny, she turned hastily away and left the room. Several times afterward, during this sojourn in the house, Floy was aware of a repetition of Mary’s fixed, searching look, and that the Madame also, in the pauses of her grief, regarded her more than once in much the same manner.