ers, as well as the elder Cousin who dwelt with them, were
"lovers of all things alive," from bishops and other dignitaries, who
paid them appreciative homage, to the South Sea Islanders, of whose
costumes they disapproved but to whom, from babyhood up, they had
helped send missionaries. The grimiest urchin in town would grin
confidentially as he touched his cap to them, and their sympathy
overflowed all local limits to childhood everywhere. Little cripples
were the special objects of their care and tenderness. Of birds and
beasts they were spirited champions. No man dared whip his horse if
they were in sight. One of the Sisters had a magic pen, and many of her
stories, whimsical and wise, carried an appeal for human gratitude
toward the domestic animals who spend their patient strength in human
service, and for friendliness toward all these sensitive
fellow-creatures, our brief companions on a whirling star. The
quadrupeds must have passed on from one to another the glad tidings of
these Ladies of Lovingkindness, for many a hungry and thirsty cur
sought the hospitalities of their kitchen, and stray cats, forsaken by
selfish owners on vacation, used their piazza and even their parlor as
a summer hotel. Early one July morning I was starting out for the
college grounds on the search for a wretched mongrel that, having
appeared from nowhere in the spring term, as dogs will, had become a
cheerful hobo of the campus, living sumptuously through unlimited
attendance on the out-of-door luncheon parties of the village students.
A Commencement auto had broken one of his legs and frightened him into
hiding, and now the ebb of all that girl life which had fed and petted
him and the disappearance of chance bones from the closed back doors of
the dormitories had brought upon the college, I was informed by special
delivery letter from an indignant alumna, "the disgrace of leaving one
of God's creatures to suffer slow starvation." Old experience led me,
before setting forth to the rescue, to telephone the Sisters and ask if
they had any news of this divine vagabond.

"Yes, indeed," rang back a cheery voice. "He is breakfasting with us
now on the porch. He came limping up the walk just as the bell rang,
exactly as if he had been invited. Such a pleasant dog in his manners,
though dreadfully thin and--it's not his fault, poor dear--_so_ dirty!
I have just been calling Dr. Vet. to come and see what can be done for
that poor leg."

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