beg Uncle for forgiveness for some great wrong that they had done
him. But she could not do that either.

When they came in again, Uncle's dog came to meet them. It was a
tiny, little thing on the thinnest legs, with fluttering ears and
gazelle-like eyes; a nothing with a shrill, little voice.

"You wonder, perhaps, that I have such a little dog," Uncle
Theodore had said.

"I suppose I do," she had answered.

"But, you see, it is not I who have chosen Jenny for my dog, but
Jenny who has taken me as a master. You would like to hear the
story, Downie?" That name he had instantly seized upon.

Yes, she would like it, although she understood that it would be
something irritating he would say.

"Well, you see, when Jenny came here the first time she lay on the
knees of a fine lady from the town, and had a blanket on her back
and a cloth about her head. Hush, Jenny; it is true that you had
it! And I thought what a little rat it was. But do you know when
that little creature was put down on the ground here some memories
of her childhood or something must have wakened in her. She
scratched, and kicked, and tried to rub off her blanket. And then
she behaved like the big dogs here; so we said that Jenny must have
grown up in the country.

"She lay out on the doorstep and never even looked at the parlor
sofa, and she chased the chickens, and stole the cat's milk, and
barked at beggars, and darted about the horses' legs when we had
guests. It was a pleasure and a joy to us to see how she behaved.
You must understand, a little thing that had only lain in a basket
and been carried on the arm! It was wonderful. And so when they
were going to leave, Jenny would not go. She stood on the steps and
whined so pitifully and jumped up on me, and really asked to be
allowed to stay. So there was nothing for us to do but to let her
stay. We were touched by the little creature; it was so small, and
yet wished to be a country dog. But I had never thought that I
should ever keep a lap-dog. Soon, perhaps, I shall get a wife too."

Oh, how hard it is to be shy, to be uneducated! She wondered if
Uncle had been very surprised when she rushed away so hurriedly.
But she had felt as if he had meant her when he spoke of Jenny. And
perhaps he had not at all. But any way--yes she had been so
embarrassed. She could not have stayed.

But it was not then "it" came, not then.

Perhaps it was in the evening at the ball. Never had she had such a
g