this time she was gone.

Laine followed her to the steps to take upon himself the responsibility of her delay, and as he came back in the room he glanced at the clock and took out his watch. It wouldn't do for a girl from the country to get into New York alone at this time of night, and, of course, he would have to meet her; but why did she come at this hour of night? Ringing for his coat and hat, he put them on, then stopped to light a cigar, and as the match was held to it the front door-bell rang sharply. A moment later some one was talking to Timkins.

"Is this Mr. Warrick's residence?"

The voice that asked the question was fresh and clear, and carried easily to where he stood. He looked around quickly as if for escape.

"Yes'm." He could picture the bow Timkins was making. Timkins was the politest person he knew. "Yes'm, and this is Miss Keith, isn't it? Just come in, ma'm, we're expecting of you, though your train must have been a little earlier than usual, ma'm. Mr. Warrick is out of town, and Mrs. Warrick had a pressing engagement which couldn't be denied, but she left messages for you, and I think a note. Yes'm, just this way." And Timkins, knowing Laine was in the library, led the stranger past the door and up the steps, over the banisters of which was heard from Dorothea a cry of delight.

"Oh, my Cousin Claudia! My Cousin Claudia! I'm so glad you've come!
I'm so glad!"

A laugh as fresh as the dawn of perfect morning followed the kisses next heard, and then the new voice spoke again.

"You precious child! I'm so glad you're glad. It's so nice to have somebody glad to see you!"

V

THE LOSS OF HIS BEST FRIEND

At the click of Laine's latch-key Moses started from the doze into which he had fallen and jumped to his feet. "Lord, sir, I sure is glad you've come," he said, following Laine into the library. "Gineral's been mighty bad off since you went away, and one time I thought he was plumb gone. He done had what you might call a faintin' fit if'n he was a person."

"Where is he?" Laine's voice was quick, and his eyes swept the room.
"What have you done for him?"

"He laid himself on the rug in your room, sir, and I give him a little brandy and water. Most in general that will hit the spot and—" But Laine was in his room, and Moses, following, saw him on his knees by the rug, his right arm under the dog's head, his left on the heart which was barely beating, and softly he tiptoed out again.

For an hour or so he stayed away, wandering between his room and the kitchen, the kitchen and the dining-room, and back again to his room, talking to himself in an undertone; and presently he sat down by a table and began to turn the pages of a family Bible which adorned it, and which he had presented to himself the Christmas before.

"It do beat all how he love that dog," he said, as if to some one at his side, "and it's a-goin' to make a hole in his heart when he's gone. I never seen anybody set such store on a thing what ain't a human being as he do on Gineral, and as for Gineral—if a dog could do what you call worship, he sure do worship Mr. Laine. They was partners, them two, and it will be a quiet place when Gineral ain't here any more."

Slowly he turned page after page of the big-printed Bible, with its illuminated text; but presently he closed it. "I've read right much of it, and I've heard a heap of it expounded, but I haven't got no recollections of any references to the passing of dogs in it," he continued, taking out a plug of tobacco and cutting off a good-sized piece. "I wish there was. When something you love is leavin' you, you have a mighty sinkin' feeling in the pit of your stomach, and a terrible understandin' of the unableness of man. And then it is you feel a reachin' out after something what ain't man. Mr. Laine is mighty learned, but learnin' ain't no cure for loneliness, and Gineral is all he's got. And I tell you now, this comin' home to empty rooms is cold comin'."

Moses was speaking to the wall opposite, but the wall not replying he got up and tip-toed to Laine's bedroom. Looking up, Laine saw him and called him in.

"Go to bed, Moses," he said, and his voice was very tired. "There is nothing you can do. If I need you I will let you know."

Moses shook his head. "I ain't a-goin' to bed, Mr. Laine. You can make me go out if you want to, but if I ain't intrudin' I would like to stay."

Slowly the hours passed. From the street occasional stirrings reached them faintly; but in the room only short breathing broke the silence. As day dawned Moses, from his seat near the door, spoke:

"Mr. Laine?"

"Well." Laine did not look up.

"When dogs die do they live again?"

"I don't know."

"I don't reckon anybody knows. But that don't mean they don't. If I was as certain I was fixed for heaven as I know Gineral is a-goin' to be waitin' for you somewhere, I'd feel more reconcilement to death. Some things can die and some things can't. There ain't no time limit to love, Mr. Laine. I think"—Moses got up—"I think Gineral is trying to make you understand something, sir."

Half an hour later Laine called Moses back into the room, gave a few orders, changed his clothes, and without waiting for breakfast went out, and not until dark did he come in again.

Dinner was a pretense, and presently he pushed his coffee aside, lighted a cigar, and took up the evening paper. The headlines were glaring, but he passed them quickly. Telegraphic news was skimmed, stock reports and weather conditions glimpsed unheedingly, and the editorial page ignored, and, finally, with a gesture of weariness, he threw the paper on the floor and went into the library.

It was, as Moses had said, a very spacious room, and its furnishings were distinctive; but, though warm and brightly lighted, to stay in it to-night was impossible, and, ringing for his coat and hat, he made ready to go out.

At the table he lingered a moment and glanced at some letters upon it. Mechanically he took one up, looked at the writing of his name, and wondered indifferently who it was from. Breaking it open, he read the few words it contained, and at them his face colored and he bit his lips to hide their twitching. He read:

DEAR MR. LAINE,—Dorothea has just told me. I am so sorry. CLAUDIA KEITH.

With a sudden surrender to something stubbornly withheld, he sat down in the chair near the table, leaned back in it, and closed his eyes to keep back that which stung and blinded them. To most of his friends the going of General would be but the going of a dog, and barely a passing thought would be its portion when they heard, but she must understand. He got up. No. There was no one who could really understand.

VI

A LETTER PROM DOROTHEA

For a moment he hesitated whether to go down or up the street. The air was biting, but the snow, fairly well cleaned from the sidewalks, no longer bothered; and, crossing into Madison Avenue, he turned down and began to walk rapidly toward that part of the city where there would be few people and little glare, and as he walked unconsciously he repeated over and over to himself: "Dorothea has just told me. I am so sorry."

"Mister, please, sir, buy a paper?" He stopped abruptly. The boy in front of him stamped first one foot and then the other, and the hand he held out was rough