d could hardly keep
from turning her head again. But she succeeded. Waves of coldness broke
on her mind; her whole body would have shuddered had not fear chilled
her into motionlessness. All reason told her that it was madness to sit
there with the stealthy horror sliding closer; even now it might be too
late. If she rose the shaggy form might spring from the ground at her.
Perhaps the wolf had treasured up the pain from the day before and now--

A black form did, indeed, rise from the ground, but slowly. And standing
on three legs, Bart stood a moment and stared in the face of the girl.
The fear rushed out of her heart; and her face flushed hotly with
relief. There was no enmity in the steady stare of the wolf-dog. She
could feel that even though she did not look. Something that Whistling
Dan had said long before came to her: "Even a hoss and a dog, Kate, can
get terrible lonesome."

Black Bart moved until he faced her directly. His ears were pricking in
eagerness; she heard a snarl, but so low and muffled that there was
hardly a threat in it; could it be a plea for attention? She would not
look down to the sharp eyes, until a weight fell on her knees--it was
the long, scarred head of the wolf! The joy that swelled in her was so
great that it pained her like a grief.

She stretched out her hand, slowly, slowly towards that head. And Black
Bart shrank and quivered, and his lips writhed back from the long,
deadly teeth, and his snarl grew to a harsher, hoarser threat; still he
did not remove his head, and he allowed the hand to touch him between
the eyes and stroke the fur back to between the ears. Only one other
hand had ever touched that formidable head in such a manner! The teeth
no longer showed; the keen, suspicious eyes grew dim with pleasure; the
snarl sank to murmur and then died out.

"Bart!" commanded the girl, sharply.

The head jerked up, but the questing eyes did not look at her. He
glanced over his shoulder to find the danger that had made her voice so
hard. And she yearned to take the fierce head in her arms; there were
tears she could have wept over it. He was snarling again, prepared
already to battle, and for her sake.

"Bart!" she repeated, more gently. "Lie down!"

He turned his head slowly back to her and looked with the unspeakable
wistfulness of the dumb brutes into her eyes. But there was only one
voice in which Bart could speak, and that was the harsh, rattling snarl
which would have made