run her over to Coney Island," he said.

"Oh, my dear boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Ess Kay. "Not for anything. The
Duchess would have a fi--I mean, she would be horrified."

But when I heard that Coney Island was like a kind of glorified Margate
(which I've never been to, but only heard about) with switchbacks and
all sorts of shows, I said that Mother would consider it a chapter in
the liberal education of a respectable British tourist; and it was
decided that we should dine there. Mrs. Ess Kay had to do a lot of
things before she could go on to Newport, so we were to shop all the
morning, lunch at Sherry's, rest in the afternoon, and spend the
evening at Coney Island. Next day we were to go to West Point, where
Mr. Parker is stationed and stay there all night for a cadet ball.

Just as we had got this programme settled, and were making up our minds
to go out early, "while it was cool" (we should all have been lying
about with wet handkerchiefs on our foreheads at home, and there would
have been special prayers in church, if it had ever been what New
Yorkers seem to think cool) the butler came in leading by a leash a
perfect angel of a dog, a little French bull, with skin satiny as a
ripe chestnut, and eyes like rosettes of brown velvet, with diamonds
shining through them. He had on a spikey silver collar, fringed on each
edge with white horsehair, and he came trotting into the room with a
high action of his paws, dainty and proud, like a horse that knows he's
on show; and his tiny head was cocked on one side as if he were asking
us to please admire him and be his friends.

I supposed that the little fellow belonged to Mrs. Ess Kay, and that he
was being brought in to bid his mistress good morning, but she said
quite sharply, "What dog is that?"

"He's a parcel, ma'am," said the butler, "addressed to Lady Betty
Bulkeley. He was left at the door by a messenger boy, and the label's
on his collar."

In another instant that little live, warm bundle of brindled satin
sewed on to steel wires was in my lap, and it did seem as if he knew
that he was mine. The queerest thing was that he had no note with him.
On the label--just a luggage label tied on his collar--was my name, in
a strange, but very interesting looking hand, and these words besides:
"The Dog is now found. His name is Vivace."

"Who _has_ sent it to you, Betty?" asked Mrs. Ess Kay; and I could see
by her eyes that she was very curious.

I had just answered, "I d