ion as a
pastry cook. However much we might further her own interests, her
imperturbable coolness made it clear that as fellow-creatures we were
nothing, but she humored every whim of that sick puppy, even letting
him lie in her immaculate pantry when the restless fancy took him. Her
love was lasting, too, for although, as soon as we had suffered her
apprenticeship and begun to enjoy her perfected craft, she ruthlessly
left us for "a hotel yob," she persisted for several years in sending
Sigurd a dog-picture postcard every Christmas. We always gave him the
cards, telling him they came from his friend Cecilia, and he pawed them
politely, but inwardly deemed them a poor substitute for the cakes,
tarts, puffs and crinkle-pastes of many curious flavors that had, for
one brief season, made our At Homes famous in our "little academe,"
dropping delicious flakes for a thrifty tongue to garner under the
table.

The distemper finally passed off in a trailing effect of St. Vitus'
dance, which, again, our afflicted collie could not understand. On our
springtide walks, his head, as he trotted in front, would suddenly be
twitched to one side, as if we had jerked it by a rein. Apparently he
thought we had, for invariably he came running back to see what we
wanted of Sigurd.

The final, enduring result of this hard experience was an assured
devotion. Sigurd had genially accepted us from the first as his people,
but now, through the suffering and weakness, he had come to know us as
his very own. The lyric cry still belonged to high romance, but after
all those piteous weeks when he found his only comfort in lying close
beside our feet--even, in extremity, upon them--he reserved certain
welcomes and caresses for us alone. Ours was the long, silent pressure
of the golden head against the knee and, in time of trouble, the swift
touch of the tongue upon clouded faces, and ours the long, shining,
intimate gaze that poured forth imperishable loyalty and love.

LADDIE

Lowly the soul that waits
At the white, celestial gates,
A threshold soul to greet
Beloved feet.

Down the streets that are beams of sun
Cherubim children run;
They welcome it from the wall;
Their voices call.

But the Warder saith: "Nay, this
Is the City of Holy Bliss.
What claim canst thou make good
To angelhood?"

"Joy," answereth it from eyes
That are amber ecstasies,
Listening, alert, elate,