They stopped, and Wint Chase was the first to alight. A muffled bark greeted him from the house, and he laughed and ran up the walk and opened the door. A wiry, tan-colored dog rushed out and engulfed him; Muldoon, an Irish terrier of parts, who had been left behind because he would neither ride in an automobile nor calmly suffer his master to do so. Muldoon was one creature whom Wint unreservedly loved; and Muldoon returned the affection. Master and dog, the first transports over, came down the walk again as the others climbed from the car. Amos Caretall was urging them all to come in. Jack Routt said he would; but Joan shook her head. “I can’t,” she laughed. “I promised mother to bring home some bread.” “I’ll take it out in the car,” Agnes pleaded. “Please....” Joan stuck to her guns. Agnes pouted. Wint did not commit himself; he seemed to take it for granted that he would go with Joan. She turned to him. “You stay, Wint!” The old sulky light flamed in his eyes again. “No--I’m going with you.” They left the others, amid a little flurry of farewells from Agnes, and turned uptown. Muldoon circled them madly, running at top speed in a desperate effort to work off the spirits generated during his confinement. Joan laughed at the dog, whistled him to her, stooped to tug at his ears affectionately. “You’re full of it, aren’t you, Muldoon?” He whined aloud in his desperate desire to answer her, then darted away again. She straightened and they went on, the girl still smiling. Wint looked at her once, and then again, and then he, too, smiled--at her and at the dog. “He’s a clown,” he said. She nodded. “He’s a fine dog, Wint.” “He’s a dog of sense. He thinks well of you.” He laughed. “I’ll give him to you some day.” She looked up at him seriously, understanding in her eyes. “I hope so, Wint,” she said. There was something besides understanding in her eyes, something faintly accusing; and he flushed and said hotly: “Don’t look at me like that. Please. I’m--I mean to--make it come true.” “I hope so, Wint,” she said again. They spoke no more for a time. Presently she stopped at the bakery and they went in together. The sweet odor of hot bread and sugar and spice clouded about them as he opened the door. A round little woman greeted them. “Is your cream bread all gone, Mrs. Mueller?” Joan asked. “No. Not yet. How many loaves?” “Two, please.” The little woman brought two loaves, still soft from the great ovens and still warm, and wrapped them gently, careful not to bruise them. She handed the package to Joan. Wint tried to take it, but Joan shook her head, laughing at him. “Last time you mashed them flat,” she said; “I’ll carry them.” “I’ll be careful,” he promised, and took the package from her with calm mastery, a mastery to which she yielded with a faint tremor of happiness. They continued more swiftly on their way. Presently she asked: “How does the work go?”