or a row of strange boys staring from the
wall.

"Darling doggy, where have you been so long?" she cried, the great thing
sprawling across her lap, as if he could not get near enough to his
brave little protector. "Did they make you black and beat you, dear? Oh,
Sanch, where is your tail--your pretty tail?"

A plaintive growl and a pathetic wag was all the answer he could make to
these tender inquiries; for never would the story of his wrongs be
known, and never could the glory of his doggish beauty be restored.
Betty was trying to comfort him with pats and praises, when a new face
appeared at the gate, and Thorny's authoritative voice called out,--

"Betty Moss, what on earth are you doing in there with that dirty
beast?"

"It's Sanch, it's Sanch! Oh, come and see!" shrieked Betty, flying up to
lead forth her prize. But the gate was held fast, for some one said the
words, "Mad dog," and Thorny was very naturally alarmed, because he had
already seen one. "Don't stay there another minute. Get up on that bench
and I'll pull you over," directed Thorny, mounting the wall to rescue
his charge in hot haste; for the dog did certainly behave queerly,
limping hurriedly to and fro, as if anxious to escape. No wonder, when
Sancho heard a voice he knew, and recognized another face, yet did not
meet as kind a welcome as before.

"No, I'm not coming out till he does. It is Sanch, and I'm going to
take him home to Ben," answered Betty, decidedly, as she wet her
handkerchief in the rain water to bind up the swollen paw that had
travelled many miles to rest in her little hand again.

"You're crazy, child. That is no more Ben's dog than I am."

"See if it isn't!" cried Betty, perfectly unshaken in her faith; and,
recalling the words of command as well as she could, she tried to put
Sancho through his little performance, as the surest proof that she was
right. The poor fellow did his best, weary and foot-sore though he was;
but when it came to taking his tail in his mouth to waltz, he gave it
up, and, dropping down, hid his face in his paws, as he always did when
any of his tricks failed. The act was almost pathetic now, for one of
the paws was bandaged, and his whole attitude expressed the humiliation
of a broken spirit.

That touched Thorny, and, quite convinced both of the dog's sanity and
identity, he sprung down from the wall with Ben's own whistle, which
gladdened Sancho's longing ear as much as the boy's rough caresses