"I've bought you a little dawg, Mary." How hard she had tried to express her thanks by addressing him as Jemmie without letting him see what an effort it was, for she had known that nothing could please him more. Somehow she gulped out the Christian name. How happy he had been. And with what grateful affection he had patted Mac good-by. The picture faded, and now there behind her stood Daisy Harland examining Mac critically in the manner of one who knew all that there was to be known about dogs. "Not a bad little pup. Come here, boy, and say how-do to your Aunt Daisy." But Mac simply would not go and say "how-do" to his Aunt Daisy, and from the first had attached himself exclusively to his mistress. There he was now growling in Pierre's arms on the day of the dog-fight in Kensington Gardens. Pierre? Strange that to-night Mac should die, to-night when he who had entered her life with Mac's help should now stand once more upon its threshold. Pierre? Why should she not write to Pierre? No harm would come from that. If he refused to answer her letter, nobody would be any the wiser. "Mac! Mac! Mac!" Silence. No pitter-pat of dear bandy legs. He was lying out there in the cold garden. "Mac, you clumsy old darling, you must not keep lying on my train." How restless and unhappy he had been on that wedding morning! How he had hated it! And when he was left behind to stay at home in charge of Adèle during the honeymoon, what a howling he had set up! She had heard him above the noisy guests bidding her good-by on the steps of the house in King's Gate. "Poor little dawg," Jemmie had exclaimed. "We really ought to have taken him with us. I owe a lot to that little dawg. I owe you to him," he had murmured with a sound in his voice that had frightened her rather. But she must let him kiss her now. She had no right to refuse. She was married. How glad Mac was to see her when she came back, and how he had enjoyed his first scamper in the garden of Woodworth Lodge. For him the lawn here must have seemed as large as the Park. Dear old dog, with what zest he used to chase the sparrows and how good he was with cats! He hated cats really; but he knew that his mistress loved them, and he would deny himself the most tempting pursuits to oblige her.