tion; but I made up my mind that the dog must have been the
Professor's pet, and that he kept the animal stuffed in his bedroom as
a remembrance of past times. "Who would have suspected so great a
philosopher of having so much heart!" thought I, leaving the bedroom to
go downstairs again.

The Professor had done his breakfast, and was anxious to begin the
sitting; so I took out my chalks and paper, and set to work at once--I
seated on one pile of books and he on another.

"Fine anatomical preparations in my room, are there not, Mr. Kerby?"
said the old gentleman. "Did you notice a very interesting and perfect
arrangement of the intestinal ganglia? They form the subject of an
important chapter in my great work."

"I am afraid you will think me very ignorant," I replied. "But I really
do not know the intestinal ganglia when I see them. The object I noticed
with most curiosity in your room was something more on a level with my
own small capacity."

"And what was that?" asked the Professor.

"The figure of the stuffed poodle. I suppose he was a favorite of
yours?"

"Of mine? No, no; a young woman's favorite, sir, before I was born;
and a very remarkable dog, too. The vital principle in that poodle, Mr.
Kerby, must have been singularly intensified. He lived to a fabulous old
age, and he was clever enough to play an important part of his own
in what you English call a Romance of Real Life! If I could only have
dissected that poodle, I would have put him into my book; he should have
headed my chapter on the Vital Principle of Beasts."

"Here is a story in prospect," thought I, "if I can only keep his
attention up to the subject."

"He should have figured in my great work, sir," the Professor went on.
"Scarammuccia should have taken his place among the examples that prove
my new theory; but unfortunately he died before I was born. His mistress
gave him, stuffed, as you see upstairs, to my father to take care of
for her, and he has descended as an heirloom to me. Talking of dogs,
Mr. Kerby, I have ascertained, beyond the possibility of doubt, that the
brachial plexus in people who die of hydrophobia--but stop! I had better
show you how it is--the preparation is upstairs under my wash-hand
stand."

He left his seat as he spoke. In another minute he would have sent the
servant to fetch the "preparation," and I should have lost the story.
At the risk of his taking offense, I begged him not to move just then,
unless he w