A huge black hound appeared from the direction of the conservatory, and, after the canine manner, expressed his wriggliest delight at the sight of Norman, ending by sitting solemnly beside the chair and laying one paw on the invalid's knee. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Jones," said Norman. The dog thumped the ground four times with his tail, and emitted a yawn like the sound of a train emerging from a tunnel. "Mr. Jones," said I, "changes from cordiality to ennui with rather startling rapidity." The hound acknowledged his name by a solitary thump, and then groaned with the air of a Stiggins contemplating the wickedness of a Weller. "What breed is he?" I asked. "Dog--just dog. He is, if I may say so, the battle-ground of his ancestors. Every breed but that of bull can be traced in him, and each has its moment of ascendancy. Mr. Jones possesses a most remarkable hereditary system." The subject of our conversation became suddenly tense. A bird had hopped on to the quarter-deck, and was pecking at the ground in a manner that would infuriate any self-respecting dog. Gathering up his loins, Mr. Jones stalked the intruder to within four yards, and then fell in a heap on the spot--where the bird had been. After surveying the landscape with a puzzled air, as if to indicate to us that foul work was afloat, he walked to the end of the lawn and gazed thoughtfully at the sea. Having thoroughly demonstrated his indifference as to whether he ever caught a bird or not, he yawned terrifically, and left the scene for the comfort of the kitchen. XII And so, partly with banter, but with many moments that were tense with feeling, we talked while the afternoon wore on. Norman was in the midst of some anecdote of either Sindbad or Mr. Jones, when he paused, and a look of delighted anticipation lit his countenance. "That's the whistle," he said. "The train's right on time to-day." He sighed happily, as a lover about to meet his sweetheart after a long absence. "Sindbad," he cried, "pipe all hands to tea. Tell Mrs. M'Gillicuddy we'll have it in the music-room." Telescope under his arm, the worthy buccaneer--for I am convinced he sailed under Captain Kidd--shuffled into the house, and the noise of the train could be distinctly heard as it emptied its crowd of one or two at the little station. "I shall go and open the gate," I said, but he stopped me. "He is with her, Pest." "Who?" "Wait.... I have kept a surprise for you." A minute later I saw his wife at the end of the path as she waved to him. She came through the leafy garden with a grace of movement that made the scene a delicate, colorful picture, and even before she had reached us I could see that her beauty was as exquisite, as perfect, as an orchid's. All sacrificed to an invalid....