as in such a hurry to show his
treasure to his two friends.

As he handed it over the low hedge that separated the two gardens he
felt a proud boy, but Eli did not appear so enthusiastic as 'Zekiel
expected. He said that "chaney dogs was more for Grannies nor for
lads," and that if he had been in 'Zekiel's place he would have chosen
a fine peg-top.

Poor 'Zekiel was disappointed. The tears gathered in his eyes. He hugged
the despised china dog fondly to him, and carried it indoors to put in a
place of honour in Granny Pyetangle's oak corner-cupboard--where it
looked out proudly from behind the glass doors, in company with the best
tea-cups, a shepherdess tending a woolly lamb, two greyhounds on
stony-white cushions, and Grandfather Pyetangle's horn snuff-box.

Time passed on, and 'Zekiel's petticoats gave place to corduroy
breeches, but his devotion to the china dog never waned. He would talk
to it, and tell it all his plans and fancies, and several times he
almost persuaded himself that it wagged its tail and nodded to him. In
fact, he was quite sure that when Granny Pyetangle was ill that
winter, the china dog was conscious of the fact, and looked at him
with its yellow eyes full of compassion and sympathy.

Poor Granny Pyetangle was certainly very ill. She had suffered from
rheumatism for many years, and was sometimes almost bent double with
it; but that autumn it came on with increased violence, and 'Zekiel,
who nursed his old grandmother devotedly, had to sit by the bed-side
for hours giving her medicine, or the food a neighbour prepared for
her, just as she required it.

Granny Pyetangle was sometimes rather cross in those days, and would
scold poor 'Zekiel for "clumping in his boots" and "worritting"--but
'Zekiel was very patient.

"Sick people _is_ wearing at times," said Dame Fossie. "Come you down
to me sometimes, 'Zekiel, and I'll let you play with my chaney dog. It
isn't fit as young lads should be cooped up always!"--and when Granny
Pyetangle had a neighbour with her, 'Zekiel gladly obeyed.

One evening he ran down the village street with a smile on his face,
and a new penny in his pocket. Squire Hancock had given it to him for
holding his horse, and he was going to spend it at Dame Fossie's on a
cake for his grandmother.

Twilight was falling, yet Dame Fossie's shop was not lighted up; which
was strange, as a little oil lamp generally burned in the window as
soon as it grew dusk.

The shop door