the door,--unsteadily, however.

"_She_'s fagged out," said Andy, lingering behind her. "Since Tuesday
night I've followed her through streets an' alleys, night an' day. Jest
as prim an' sober as you see. Cryin' softly to herself at times. It's a
sore heart-break, Sir. Waitin' these ten years"--

Dr. Bowdler offered his help, earnestly, as did his niece, with a
certain reserve. The dog Thor had disappeared with Starke, and they
hoped that would afford some clue.

"But the woman is a mere clog," said Miss Defourchet, impatiently, after
they were gone. "Her eyes are as sad, unreasonable as Thor's. Nothing in
them but instinct. But it is so with most women,"--with a sigh.

"But somehow, Mary, those women never mistake their errand in the world
any more than Thor, and do it as unconsciously and completely as he,"
said the Doctor, with a quizzical smile. "If Starke had followed, his
'instincts,' he would have been a snug farmer to-day in the Jerseys."

Miss Defourchet vouchsafed no answer.

Dr. Bowdler gave his help, as he had promised, but to no purpose. A week
passed in the search without success, until at last Thor brought it. The
dog was discovered one night in the kitchen, waiting for his supper, as
he had been used to do: his affection for his new master, I suppose, not
having overcome his recollection of the flesh-pots of Egypt. They
followed him (Jane, the Doctor, and Andy) out to that maze of narrow
streets, near Fairmount, called, I think, Francisville. He stopped at a
low house, used in front as a cake-shop, the usual young girl with high
cheek-bones and oily curls waiting within.

"The dog's owner?" the trading look going out of her eyes suddenly, "Oh,
are you his friends? He's low to-night: mother's up with him since
supper; mother's kept him since last Tuesday,"--fussing out from behind
the counter. "Take chairs, Ma'am. I'll call her. Go out, you
Stevy,"--driving out two or three urchins in their bed-gowns who were
jamming up the door-way.

Miserably poor the whole place was; the woman, when she came down, a
hard skinflint--in Andy's phrase--in the face: just home from her day's
washing, her gown pinned up, her arms flabby and red.

"Good evenin', Sir! evenin', Ma'am! See the man? Of course, Ma'am; but
you'd best be keerful,"--standing between Jane and the door. "He's very
poorly."

"What ails him?"

"Well, I'll say it out,--if you're his friends, as you say," stammering.
"I'd not like to accuse an