austed collie as stood wagging there! His coat was grimy,
his ruff gray and tangled, and from his collar, drawn cruelly tight,
dragged a cumbrous length of iron chain. The Sisters, who, suffering
all the pangs of contrition, had been no less eager than we in
prosecuting the search, hurried over (without Laddie) straight from
their breakfast table, and one of them, flinging her arms about Sigurd
as he nestled in the forbidden easy-chair--for he never missed the
opportunity to wrest some special privilege out of any emotional
crisis--sobbed with relief. Spent as he was, the collie licked her
cheek, forgiving and consoling, even while his happy, love-beaming eyes
could hardly hold themselves open. If an attempt had been made to
kidnap him, Sigurd's strength and often proved cleverness in
extricating himself from bonds had stood him in good stead. More
fortunate than his sister Hildigunna and than another high-spirited
sister, Unna, likewise supposed to have been stolen--though in the saga
Unna ran away from her home (and husband),--Sigurd, if he could not
break the chain of captivity, had managed to pull it out of its staple
and lug it along with him back to freedom.

By an assiduous use of the telephone to the effect, "We are taking
Laddie for a walk. Will you please keep Sigurd in?" or "Sigurd has just
started off in your direction. Where's Laddie?" we kept a certain check
on their escapades for the rest of that winter, but they contrived to
meet at some secret rendezvous in apple-blossom time and came home
panting and jubilant, with pink and white blossoms all over their
coats. Sigurd apparently liked the effect, considering himself a King
of the May, for no sooner were those petals brushed off than he frisked
out and rolled over in the tulip-bed to accumulate some more. On the
few occasions when our runaways, oozing through the merest cracks of
doors, gave us the slip, we dropped all minor occupations and hunted
them down, calling in the aid of an amused liveryman, an Irish neighbor
whose white hairs thatched a pate where wit and kindliness kept house
together.

"It's the goolden dog y'are to me," he would say to Sigurd. "Many's the
good dollar I've made out o' yez thraipsin's and throublin's."

The Lady of Cedar Hill had given away to appreciative friends all the
puppies save Gunnar, but several of them had homes nearby and she
thought it would be pleasant to have a family reunion once a year, on
their common birth