“That’s like all dogs,” grumbled Caleb. “An’mals just natch’lly hate me. I don’t know why; unless maybe because I don’t like ’em. What’s he got in his mouth?” “His ball,” laughed the boy. “He always carries one around. We figured out the other day that he’s stolen at least eighty tennis balls this season. He has them ‘planted’ all over the place. One under my bed, another in the hotel woodbox and so on. Then whenever he gets lonely he roots one of them out and hunts up somebody to play ball with him. And we usually do it. I don’t know why.” They had left the tent and were walking along the wooden path toward the dining room; Rex trotting just in front of them, and making them adjust their pace on the narrow footway to his. At the walk’s end, the dog suddenly bolted; and with ears tucked backward and tail flying, scampered across to where Desirée was just emerging from the Hawarden cottage. Caleb joined the girl and her chaperone; and the quartette started once more to the dining room. Conover and Desirée led the way, Rex placidly thrusting himself between them, as they walked. “Don’t you think he’s a beauty?” asked Desirée. “He’s--oh, look!” A baby, perhaps two years old, was weaving a tortuous way, under convoy of her nurse toward the tents. At sight of Rex, the child deserted her lawful escort and made a wild, toddling rush for the dog. Six feet away from him she halted, a gold-and-white fluff of irresolute babyhood, scared at her own temerity. Rex had paused at her approach and stood wagging his tail, patiently awaiting the next move. The baby, eyeing him with furtive longing, made the first advance. “_How_-do?” she said, politely, ducking her head in a propitiatory obeisance at the marvellous gold-red creature in her path. As Rex did not reply to the salutation in any language she could understand, the baby repeated her remark, a shade more dubiously. “You darling little thing!” cried Desirée. “He’s forgotten how to talk or he’d answer you. You want to pat him, don’t you? He won’t bite. Come along. See, I’m holding him for you,” and she buried a white hand in the warm fur of the dog’s neck. Thus encouraged, the child came nearer, with mincing, uncertain steps, ever ready to turn and flee should the seemingly quiescent monster show the slightest inclination to turn and rend her. At length, in a burst of dashing heroism, she put one pudgy hand on his head in a gingerly caress. Rex sat down in the path and with a monumental calm suffered the familiarity. The baby with a squeal of delight at her immunity, took his furry head to her breast and squeezed it with arms that scarce met about the dog’s soft throat. Then she ventured on a grandstand play. Looking, to make sure all saw her, she thrust one small finger into the dog’s half-open mouth. Rex laid back his ears and rolled up his eyes in beatific quiescence. “The beauty!” applauded Desirée. “See, Caleb! He’s trying to look like a Numidean lion. He worships children. Look at him!”