Mrs. Howland was in her own room, on the point of preparing for bed, when there came a knock at her chamber door, "Please, Aunt Ellen, may I come in?" "Certainly, my dear," called Mrs. Howland, hastening across the room. Kate stepped inside, closed the door, and placed her back against it. "I'll give it up," she began, half laughing, half crying. "I never, never would have believed it! Don't ever say 'crumbs' or 'plates' to me again as long as you live--_please_! I believe I never can even _see_ the things again with any peace or comfort. I am going to try--try--Oh, how I'm going to try!--but, auntie, I think it's a hopeless case!" The next instant she had whisked the door open and had vanished out of sight. "'Hopeless'?" Mrs. Howland was whispering to herself the next day, as she passed through the hall. "'Hopeless'? Oh, no, I think not." And she smiled as she heard her niece's voice in the drawing-room saying: "High studded, Eben?--these rooms? Yes, perhaps; but, after all, it doesn't matter so much, being a drawing-room--and one does get better air, you know!" A Four-Footed Faith and a Two On Monday Rathburn took the dog far up the trail. Stub was no blue-ribbon, petted dog of records and pedigree; he was a vicious-looking little yellow cur of mixed ancestry and bad habits--that is, he had been all this when Rathburn found him six months before and championed his cause in a quarrel with a crowd of roughs in Mike Swaney's saloon. Since then he had developed into a well-behaved little beast with a pair of wistful eyes that looked unutterable love, and a tail that beat the ground, the floor, or the air in joyous welcome whenever Rathburn came in sight. He was part collie, sharp-nosed and prick-eared, and his undersized little body still bore the marks of the precarious existence that had been his before Rathburn had befriended him. Rathburn had rescued the dog that day in the saloon more to thwart the designs of Pete Mulligan, the head of the gang and an old enemy, than for any compassion for the dog itself; but after he had taken the little animal home he rather enjoyed the slavish devotion which--in the dog's mind--seemed evidently to be the only fit return for so great a service as had been done him. For some months, therefore, Rathburn petted the dog, fed him, taught him to "speak" and to "beg," and made of him an almost constant companion. At the end of that time, the novelty having worn thin, he was ready--as he expressed it to himself--to "call the whole thing off," and great was his disgust that the dog failed to see the affair in the same light. For some time, Rathburn endured the plaintive whines, the questioning eyes, the frequent thrusts of a cold little nose against his hand; then he determined to end it all. "Stub, come here!" he called sharply, his right hand seeking his pocket. With a yelp of joy the dog leaped forward--not for days had his master voluntarily noticed him.