egin new here, and it's all gone. I
don't know what to do, Smuttie, I truly don't. Alie means to be kind,
but it's quite easy for her to be good, I think. And it's no good me
trying. It really isn't, so I think I'll just leave off and be
comfortable.'

Smut looked up and wagged his tail. He was quite ready to agree with
anything Biddy proposed, so long as she spoke cheerfully and did not
cry.

'Good little Smuttie, kind little Smut,' said the child; 'you're so nice
and understanding always.'

But Smut seemed restless; he fidgeted about in front of Bride, first
running a step or two, then stopping to wag his tail and look back
appealingly at her in an insinuating doggy way of his own. Biddy
pretended not to know what he meant, but she could not long keep up this
feint.

'I do know what you want,' she said at last with a sigh. 'It's a scamper,
and I hate running, and I'm sure you know I do. But I suppose I must do
it to please you. You won't roar after me like Rough, anyway.'

And off she set, her short legs exerting themselves valiantly for
Smuttie's sake. He of course could have run much faster, but he was far
too much of a gentleman to do so, and he stayed beside her, contenting
himself every now and then by stopping short to look up at her, with a
quick cheery bark of satisfaction and encouragement.

CHAPTER III

A TRYING CHILD

'I think words are little live creatures,
A species of mischievous elves.'
_Child Nature._

Bride and Smuttie did not overtake Mrs. Vane and Rosalys, for they were
running towards the sea, whereas the others were walking straight along
the shore. But the dog's bark and the sound once or twice of the child's
voice speaking to him came clearly through the still winter air.

Mrs. Vane stopped for a moment and looked after them. She and Alie had
been talking about Bridget as they walked.

'There she is again,' said her mother, 'as merry and thoughtless as can
be. That is the worst of her, Alie, you can make no impression on her.'

'I don't think it's quite that, mamma,' Rosalys replied, 'though I know
it often seems so. She was really very, very sorry about her frock. And
she's so young--she's not eight yet, mamma.'

'You were quite different at eight,' answered Mrs. Vane. 'Just
think--that time I was so ill and papa was away. You were barely seven,
and what a thoughtful, careful little body you were! I shall never
fo