d she was
trying hard to remember that she was growing up!

John Flint stood staring after her, his hand on the dog's collar,
holding him in. His face was still without a vestige of color, and his
eyes glittered. Then his other hand crept out to touch the dog's
head.

"It's wet--where she dropped tears on it! Parson ... she's given me
her dog ... that she loves enough to cry over!"

"He's a very fine dog, and she has had him and loved him from his
puppyhood," I reminded him. And I added, with a wily tongue: "You can
always turn him over to me, you know--if you decide to take to the
road and wish to get rid of a troublesome companion. A dog is bad
company for a man who wishes to dodge the police."

But he only shook his head. His eyes were troubled, and his forehead
wrinkled.

"Parson," said he, hesitatingly, "did you ever feel like you'd been
caught by--by Something reaching down out of the dark? Something big
that you couldn't see and couldn't ever hope to get away from, because
it's always on the job? Ain't it a hell of a feeling?"

"Yes," I agreed. "I've felt--caught by that Something, too. And it is
at first a terrifying sensation. Until--you learn to be glad."

"You're caught--and you know under your hat you're never going to be
able to get away any more. It'll hold you till you die!" said he, a
little wildly. "My God! I'm caught! First It bit off a leg on me, so I
couldn't run. Then It wished you and your bugs on me. And now--Yes,
sir; I'm done for. That kid got my goat this morning. My God, who'd
believe it? But it's true: I'm done for. She gave me her dog and she
got my goat!"

CHAPTER VI

"THY SERVANT WILL GO AND FIGHT WITH THIS PHILISTINE"
1 Sam. 17: 32.

Mary Virginia had gone, weeping and bewept, and the spirit of youth
seemed to have gone with her, leaving the Parish House darkened
because of its absence. A sorrowful quiet brooded over the garden that
no longer echoed a caroling voice. Kerry, seeking vainly for the
little mistress, would come whining back to John Flint, and look up
mutely into his face; and finding no promise there, lie down,
whimpering, at his feet. The man seemed as desolate as the dog,
because of the child's departure.

"When I come back," Mary Virginia said to him at parting, "I expect
you'll know more about moths and butterflies than anybody else in the
world does. You're that sort. I'd love to be here, watching you grow
up into it, but I've got to go away a