fly; but then, of course, anyone who has eyes knows that they do lure flies, snapping at them all day long, and just for the fun of it too, not because they need them for food, as birds do. Mamma, I don't believe there's anything meaner than a Laverack setter. Still, Tadjie would never have done such a thing, I know." Mrs. Gerald was silent, and Tattine, expecting her to confirm what she had said, grew a little suspicious. "Would Tadjie, Mamma?" with a directness that would not admit of indirectness.

"Yes, Tattine; Tadjie would. She was trained to hunt before ever she was given to Papa, and so were her ancestors before her. That is why Doctor and Betsy, who have never been trained to hunt, go wild over the rabbits. They have inherited the taste."

"Trained to hunt," said Tattine thoughtfully. "Do you mean that men just went to work to teach them to be so cruel?"

"Well, I suppose in a way setters are natural hunters, Tattine, but then their training has doubtless a great deal to do with it, but I want to tell you something that I think will give you just a grain of comfort. I read the other day that Sir John Franklin, the great Arctic explorer, who almost lost his life in being attacked by some huge animal—it must have been a bear, I think—says that the animal when he first gets you in his teeth gives you such a shake that it paralyzes your nerves—this is, it benumbs all your feelings, so, that, strange as it may seem, you really do not suffer. So let us hope that it was that way with this little rabbit."

"But there's a little blood here on one side, Mamma."

"That doesn't always prove suffering, either, Tattine. Soldiers are sometimes wounded without ever knowing it until they see a little sign of blood somewhere."

Tattine listened attentively to all this, and was in a measure comforted. It seemed that Mamma was still able to better things, even though not able to set everything perfectly right. "Now," Tattine said,—with a little sigh of relief, "I think I will try and see what I can do for Bunny. Perhaps he would first like a drink," so downstairs she went, and putting some milk in a shallow tea-cup, she dipped Bunny's nose in it, and it seemed to her as though he did take a little of it. Then she trudged up to the garret for a box, and, putting a layer of cotton-batting in the bottom, laid Bunny in one corner. Then she went to the garden and pulled a leaf or two of the youngest, greenest lettuce, and put it right within reach of Bunny's nose, and a little saucer of water beside it. Then she went down to tell the gardener's little boy all about the sorrowful thing that had happened.

The next morning Bunny was still breathing, but the lettuce was un-nibbled; he had not moved an inch, and he was trembling like a leaf. "Mamma," she called upstairs, "I think I'll put BUN in the sun" (she was trying not to be too down-hearted); "he seems to be a little chilly." Then she sat herself down in the sun to watch him. Soon Bunny ceased to tremble. "Patrick," she called to the old man who was using the lawn mower, "is this little rabbit dead?"

"Yes, miss, shure," taking the little thing gently in his hand.

"Very well," she answered quietly. Tattine used those two little words very often; they meant that she accepted the situation, if you happen to know what that means. "Now I think I will not trouble Mamma about it," she said to herself thoughtfully, so she went to the closet under the stairs, got a little empty box she knew was there, and, taking it out of doors, she put the little rabbit in it, and then trudged down to the tool-house for her spade and rake.

"Bunny is dead, Joey," she called to the gardener's little boy as she came back. "Come help me bury him," and so Joey trotted behind her to the spot already selected. "We must make this hole good and deep," she explained (Joey stood looking on in wide-eyed wonder), "for if Doctor and Betsy would kill a little live rabbit, there is no telling but they would dig up a dead one." So the hole was made at least four inches deep, Bunny was buried in it, and the earth, with Joey's assistance, stamped down hard, but afterwards it was loosened somewhat to plant a little wild-wood plant atop of the tiny grave. "Now, Joey, you wait here till I go bring something for a tombstone," Tattine directed, and in a second she was back again with the cover of a box in one hand and a red crayon in the other. Sitting flat upon the grass, she printed on the cover in rather irregular letters:—

This she put securely into place, while Joey raked up a little about the spot, and they left the little rabbit grave looking very neat and tidy. The next morning Tattine ran out to see how the little wild-wood plant was growing, and then she stood with her arms akimbo in blank astonishment. The little grave had disappeared. She kicked aside the loose earth, and saw that box and Bunny were both gone, and, not content with that, they had partially chewed up the tombstone, which lay upon its face a little distance away. They, of course, meant Betsy and Doctor. "There was no use in my putting: 'Laverack setters not allowed,'" she said to herself sorrowfully, and she ran off to tell her Mother of this latest tragedy.

"Yes, I know, Tattine dear," said Mrs. Gerald, in the first pause; "there is neither pity nor mercy in the heart of a setter when he is on the scent of a rabbit, alive or dead—but, Tattine, don't forget they have their good sides, Doctor and Betsy; just think how fond they are of you and me. Why, the very sight of us always makes them beat a tattoo with their tails."

"Yes, I know, Mamma, but I can't feel somehow that tattoos with their tails make up for killing rabbits with their teeth."

CHAPTER II. A MAPLE-WAX MORNING

A team came rushing in between the gate-posts of the stone wall, and it looked like a run-away. They were riderless and driverless, and if there had been any harness, there was not a vestige of it to be seen; still, they kept neck and neck, which means in horsey language side by side, and on they came in the maddest fashion. Tattine stood on the front porch and watched them in high glee, and not a bit afraid was she, though they were coming straight in her direction. When they reached her they considerately came to a sudden stop, else there is no doubt whatever but she would have been tumbled over.

"Well, you are a team," laughed Tattine, and they laughed back, "Yes, we know we are," and sat down on the step on either side of her. Of course, that would have been a remarkable thing for some teams to do, but not for this one, for, as you can guess, they were just two little people, Mabel and Rudolph, but they were a perfect team all the same; everybody said so, and what everybody meant was this—that whatever Rudolph "was up to," Mabel was "up to" also, and vice versa. They traveled together finely, right "up on the bit" all the time. It would have been easier for those who had charge of them if one or the other had held back now and then, and set a slower pace, but as that was not their nature and could not be helped, everybody tried to make the best of them, and everybody loved them. Tattine did not see how she could ever have lived without them, for they were almost as much a brother and sister to her as to each other. This morning hey had come over by invitation for what they called a Maple-wax morning, and that was exactly what it was, and if you have never had one of your own, wait till you read about this one of Tattine's, and then give your dear Mamma no peace until you have had one, either in your kitchen in town, or in the woods out of town, which is better. One thing is necessary to its complete enjoyment, however: you must have a "sweet tooth," but as most little people cut that particular tooth very early,