alling, stumbling, staggering--till he got to his
destination. Then he dropped dead at the side of the Colonel the
message had been sent to. And those are only two of thousands of true
collie-anecdotes. Yet some fools are trying to get American dogs done
away with, as 'non-utilitarian,' while the war lasts! As if the dogs in
France, today, weren't earning their overseas brothers' right to
live--and live well!"

Neither of his hearers made reply when the guest finished his earnest,
eager recital. Neither of them had paid much heed to his final words.
For the Master and the Mistress were looking at each other in mute
unhappiness. The same miserable thought was in the mind of each. And
each knew the thought that was torturing the mind of the other.

Presently, at a glint of inquiry in the Master's eye, the Mistress
suddenly bent over and buried her face in the deep mass of Bruce's ruff
as the dog stood lovingly beside her. Then, still stroking the collie's
silken head, she returned her husband's wretchedly questioning glance
with a resigned little nod. The Master cleared his throat noisily
before he could speak with the calm indifference he sought. Then,
turning to the apparently unnoticing guest, he said--

"I think I told you I tried to get across to France at the very
start--and I was barred because I am past forty and because I have a
bum heart and several other defects that a soldier isn't supposed to
have. My wife and I have tried to do what little we can for the Cause,
on this side of the ocean. But it has seemed woefully little, when we
remember what others are doing. And we have no son we can send."

Again he cleared his throat and went on with sulky ungraciousness:

"We both know what you've been driving at for the past five minutes.
And--and we agree. Bruce can go."

"Great!" applauded the guest. "That's fine! He'll be worth his--"

"If you think we're a couple of fools for not doing this more
willingly," went on the Master with savage earnestness, "just stop to
think what it means to a man to give up the dog he loves. Not to give
him up to some one who will assure him a good home, but to send him
over into that hell, where a German bullet or a shell-fragment or
hunger or disease is certain to get him, soon or late. To think of him
lying smashed and helpless, somewhere in No Man's Land, waiting for
death; or caught by the enemy and eaten! (The Red Cross bulletin says
no less than eight thousand dogs were