broke over the girl's winsome face, as she caught the
meaning of Czar's behavior. "O," she said, "are you his master?" Her
manner was as natural and unrestrained as a child's--her voice, musically
sweet and low, as one unaccustomed to the speech of noisy, crowded cities
or shrill chattering crowds.

"I am his most faithful and humble subject," returned the man,
whimsically.

She was studying his face openly, while her own countenance--unschooled to
hide emotions, untrained to deceive--frankly betrayed each passing thought
and mood. The daintily turned chin, sensitive lips, delicate nostrils, and
large, blue eyes,--with that wide, unafraid look of a child that has never
been taught to fear,--revealed a spirit fine and rare; while the low,
broad forehead, shaded by a wealth of soft brown hair,--that, arranged
deftly in some simple fashion, seemed to invite the caress of every
wayward breath of air,--gave the added charm of strength and purpose. The
man, seeing these things and knowing--as few men ever know--their value,
waited her verdict.

It came with a smile and a pretty fancy, as though she caught the mood of
the novelist's reply. "He has told me so much about you--how kind you are
to him, and how he loves you. I hope you don't mind that he and I have
learned to be good friends. Won't you tell me his name? I have tried
everything, but nothing seems to fit. To call such a royal fellow,
'doggie', doesn't do at all, does it?"

Conrad Lagrange laughed--and it was the laugh of a Conrad Lagrange unknown
to the world. "No," he said with mock seriousness, "'doggie,' doesn't do
at all. He's not that kind of a dog. His name is Czar. That is"--he added,
giving full rein to his droll humor--"I gave it to him for a name. He has
made it his title. He did that, you know, so I would always remember that
he is my superior."

She laughed--low, full-throated and clear--as a girl who has not sadly
learned that she is a woman, laughs. Then she fell to caressing the dog
and calling him by name; while Czar--in his efforts to express his delight
and satisfaction--was as nearly undignified as it was possible for him to
be.

As he watched them, the rugged, world-worn features of the famous novelist
were lighted with an expression that transformed them.

"And I suppose," she said,--still responding to the novelist's playful
mood,--"that Czar told you I was trespassing in your garden. Of course it
was his duty to tell. I hope he told you