All his life, Lad had been a privileged character on the Place. Never had he known nor needed whip or chain. Never had he,—or any of the Place’s other dogs,—been wantonly teased by any human. He had known, and had given, only love and square treatment and stanch friendliness. He had ruled as benevolent monarch of the Place’s Little People; had given leal service to his two deities, the Mistress and the Master; and had stood courteously aloof from the rest of mankind. And he had been very, very happy. Now, in a breath, all this was changed. Ever at his heels, ever waiting to find some new way to pester him, was a human too small and too weak to attack;—a human who was forever setting the collie’s highstrung nerves on edge or else actively hurting him. Lad could not understand it. And as the child gained in health and strength, Lad’s lot grew increasingly miserable. The Mistress and the Master were keenly aware of conditions. And they did their best,—a useless best,—to mitigate them for the dog. They laboured over Cyril, to make him leave Lad alone. They pointed out to him the mean cowardice of his course of torture. They even threatened to send him to nearer relatives until his parents’ return. All in vain. Faced with the most undeniable proofs, the child invariably would lie. He denied that he had ever ill-used Lad in any way; and would weep, in righteous indignation, at the charges. What was to be done? “I thought it would brighten up the house so, to have a child in it again!” sighed the Mistress as she and her husband discussed the matter, uselessly, for the fiftieth time, after one of these scenes. “I looked forward so much to his coming here! But he’s—oh, he isn’t like any child I ever heard of before!” “If I could devote five busy minutes a day to him,” grunted the Master, “with an axe-handle or perhaps a balestick—” “You wouldn’t do it!” denied his wife. “You wouldn’t harm him; any more than Lad does. That’s the trouble. If Cyril belonged to us, we could punish him. Not with a—a balestick, of course. But he needs a good wholesome spanking, more than any one else I can think of. That or some other kind of punishment that would make an impression on him. But what can we do? He isn’t ours—” “Thank God!” interpolated the Master, piously. “And we can’t punish other people’s children,” she finished. “I don’t know what we _can_ do. I wouldn’t mind half so much about the other sneaky things he does; if it wasn’t for the way he treats Laddie. I—”