Walden patted the boy's rough towzled head gently, and thought of his faithful 'Nebbie.' It would have been mere hypocrisy to preach resignation to Bob, when he, the Reverend John, knew perfectly well that if his own canine comrade had been thus cruelly slain, he also would have 'hated the quality.'

"Look here, Bob," he said at last,--"I know just how you feel! It's just as bad as bad can be. But try and be a man, won't you? You can't bring the poor little creature back to life again,--and it's no use frightening your mother with all this grief for what cannot be helped. Then there's poor Kitty--SHE 'hates the quality';--her little heart is sore and full of bad feelings--all for the sake of you and your dog, Bob! She's giving her mother no end of trouble up at the Manor, crying and fretting--suppose you go and see her? Talk it over together, like two good children, and try if you can't comfort each other. What do you say?"

Bob rose from beside the chair where he had flung himself on his knees when Walden had entered his mother's cottage,--and rubbed his knuckles hard into his eyes with a long and dismal sniff.

"I'll try, sir!" he said chokingly, and then suddenly seizing 'Passon's' hand, he kissed it with boyish fervour, caught up his cap and ran out. Walden stood for a moment inert,--there was an uncomfortable tightness in his throat.