e energy and violence with which, when once excited, he threw
himself into them, became quite a popular leader. Mrs. Haden rejoiced
over the change; for he was now far more lively and more like other
children than he had been, although still generally silent except when
addressed by her and drawn into talk. He was as fond as ever of the
dogs, but that fondness was now a part only instead of the dominating
passion of his existence. And so months after months went on and no
event of importance occurred to alter the current of Jack Simpson's
life.

CHAPTER III.

THE RESOLUTION.

An artist sitting in the shade under a tree, painting a bit of rustic
gate and a lane bright with many honeysuckles. Presently he is conscious
of a movement behind him, and looking round, sees a sturdily built boy
of some ten years of age, with an old bull-dog lying at his feet, and
another standing by his side, watching him.

"Well, lad, what are you doing?"

"Nowt!" said the boy promptly.

"I mean," the artist said with a smile, "have you anything to do? if
not, I will give you sixpence to sit still on that gate for a quarter of
an hour. I want a figure."

The boy nodded, took his seat without a word, and remained perfectly
quiet while the artist sketched him in.

"That will do for the present," the artist said. "You can come and sit
down here and look at me at work if you like; but if you have nothing to
do for an hour, don't go away, as I shall want you again presently.
Here is the sixpence; you will have another if you'll wait. What's your
name?" he went on, as the boy threw himself down on the grass, with his
head propped up on his elbows.

"Bull-dog," the lad said promptly; and then colouring up, added "at
least they call me Bull-dog, but my right name be Jack Simpson."

"And why do they call you Bull-dog, Jack?"

The artist had a sympathetic voice and spoke in tones of interest, and
the lad answered frankly:

"Mother--that is, my real mother--she died when I were a little kid, and
Juno here, she had pups at the time--not that one, she's Flora, three
years old she be--and they used to pretend she suckled me. It bain't
likely, be it?" he asked, as if after all he was not quite sure about it
himself. "Schoolmaster says as how it's writ that there was once two
little rum'uns, suckled by a wolf, but he can't say for sure that it's
true. Mother says it's all a lie, she fed me from a bottle. But they
called me Bull-dog from