The only living thing that rejoiced with Mary over her return, was a lean, hungry dog, the favourite of an out-pensioner who died about six months before the sergeant-major. It was ill-favoured, but faithful, remaining many nights upon its master’s grave. Lucy coaxed it home and fed it; and though the creature’s erratic disposition prevented its accepting the refuge she then offered, he would come in occasionally for a night’s lodging, or a breakfast, and depart without a single wag of his stunted tail. When Lucy left Chelsea, Mary almost lost sight of the dog, though she met him sometimes, and then he would look to her—a sort of recognition—and walk on. The morning after Lucy’s return, while she lay upon her nurse’s bed, the door was poked open by a thick, grizzled nose, and in another instant the pensioner’s dog rushed to her, expressing his joy by the most uncouth sounds and motions, screaming while licking her hands, and, when his excitement subsided, lying down inside the door, with his eyes fixed upon her, baffling all Mary’s efforts to turn him out. Beauty, after all, has very little to do with the affections; after its first sun stroke, it loses most of its power. Lucy had the keen appreciation of the beautiful which belongs to a refined mind in every situation of life; yet the gratitude of that poor ugly dog attached her to him; through all her sufferings, when her nurse was out at work, he was a companion, something to speak to. The little store was soon expended, though Mary would not confess it; Lucy, skilled in the womanly craft of needlework, laboured unceasingly; and, as long as she was able to apply to it, Mary found a market for her industry. But as the disease gained ground, her efforts became more feeble, and then the faithful nurse put forth all her strength, all her ingenuity, to disguise the nature of their situation; the expense of the necessary medicine, inefficient as it was, would have procured her every alleviating Comfort—IF THERE HAD BEEN AN INSTITUTION TO SUPPLY IT.