“My child,” he said, brokenly, as he took both her hands and looked them carefully over with tear-laden eyes, “are you _sure_ you did not get a scratch anywhere?” “Quite sure, Uncle Jacob,” Star replied, reassuringly; “the dog did not touch me anywhere, and if he had, I had a pair of stout undressed kid gloves on, and they would have protected me.” “But you were in terrible danger. Suppose you had not succeeded in pinning him down, and he had turned upon you?” he said, with a shudder. “I did not think of that,” Star answered; “but if I had _known_ that he would turn upon me, I believe I should have tried to save Josephine just the same. _Somebody_ was in danger of being bitten even if she escaped unharmed, and I felt that I must strain every nerve and not allow him to get among the company. The dog was a tiny little thing,” she went on, flushing and becoming excited as she seemed to live over again that dreadful experience; “but, oh, Uncle Jacob, he was terribly strong. I thought once that I should have to let him go; I could not have held him one minute longer;” and she covered her face with her hands, weeping from nervousness. “We must not talk about it any more; it excites you,” Mr. Rosevelt said, soothingly; “but the world would have been very dark for me if anything had happened to you; and—I am bitter enough to feel that Josephine Richards’ safety is dearly bought, even at the sacrifice of nothing more than your nerves and strength,” he concluded, in a stern tone. Star reached out one white hand and laid it gently upon his, saying, with grave sweetness, while she wiped away her tears: “Uncle Jacob, let us not judge too harshly nor be unforgiving. ‘Charity,’ you know, ‘suffereth long and is kind, and never faileth.’ Surely you would not have had me run away like a coward, and leave her sitting there playing with that mad creature, _knowing_ that she was in such fearful danger?” “N-o,” he admitted, reluctantly. “Just think,” Star went on; “she had him in her lap, and I did not speak one instant too soon, for hardly had I told her that he was mad, when he snapped at her. No; I am glad that I did what was right, and Josephine Richards’ life was every bit as precious to me yesterday as that of any one else, and I should have done just the same had she been an enemy a hundred-fold more than she is. She has endeavored to injure me, I know, in every possible way, and, in all the ordinary walks of life, I should let her alone. Her spite and ill-will, however bitter, cannot do me any real harm, although they may annoy me exceedingly, and doubtless will, in the end, rebound upon herself; but I am glad that I did not falter yesterday. I did what I could with the kindest of motives; and if _she_ does not feel that she owes me anything, it cannot alter the fact that I did _my_ duty.” Mr. Rosevelt regarded her with an almost worshipful look.