Buxton," I asked, and she brought
it, cutting it for me with her neat accuracy of motion and
conservation of energy. I spread the single sheet open and began, but
I never read more than one line of that letter.

For it began,

_Dear old Jerry:_

_Ever since Kitchener found you, I have changed_--

"Kitch! Kitch!" I cried, overcome with shame and penitence. "Oh, Miss
Buxton, do you--does anybody--"

"He is just outside," she said, "I will have him sent up at once. I
thought you would want him soon, Mr. Jerrolds. And don't worry--he has
never been neglected."

I clutched the sheet in my impatience. Very soon there was a scurrying
through the hall, a little gasping snuffle, a small, sharp bark. Then
he was on the bed before I saw his good brindled head, almost, and in
my arms. I pressed my face against his dear, quivering coat, I
surrendered my cheek to his warm, rough tongue, I translated each
happy convulsive wriggle.

"Dear old Kitch--good fellow!" I muttered, none too steadily, for I
was not strong yet, and he seemed suddenly the only friend on whom I
could unreservedly count. Roger had wished to stay with me, I knew,
but of course he must go with his wife, and I am glad that I never
grudged his absence a moment. For this cause shall a man leave his
life-long friend and cleave only to her, and there is no other way.
But nothing, nothing could separate Kitch and me!

Miss Buxton left us alone together and we discussed the situation
gravely and thoroughly and assured each other that it was only a
matter of patience, now, and then, away together!

My spirits rose from the day he came in, and in another week I had
advanced to a deep cushioned chair in the window for an hour a day.
But it was not a very interesting window, commanding as it did my
neighbour's eight-foot garden wall crowned with inhospitable broken
glass, and though I appreciate the marvel of the spring as much, I
suppose, as most of us, I could never occupy myself very long with
natural beauties exclusively, and the trees and the grass could not
satisfy my craving for human interest. Now that I was ready for them,
all my friends were off for their Easter holiday, and I would not keep
the Professor from his spring gardening, though he offered manfully. I
have never cared for games, with the single exception of his beloved
chess, and my eyes soon tired of reading.

And so at last, in default of something more to my mind, I turned to
my