eyes sorrowfully at the glowing coals. He was not at all a
pretty dog, and probably never had been, even in the days of his
prosperity, and these were evidently gone by. He was long-legged and
rough-coated, with coarse black hair mingled with yellowish brown, and
his large bright eyes had a timid look in them as though he feared
ill-treatment; he sat with his thin body drawn together as closely as
possible, as if anxious to escape observation.

Tim stood and looked at him, and felt sorry. He was such a very
miserable dog, and yet so patient.

"Is he your dog?" he asked the old woman.

"Bless yer 'art, no," she answered. "He's a stray, he is; he'll come
and sit there often at nights, and I sometimes give him a mouthful o'
supper."

"I suppose he's rare and 'ungry?" pursued Tim.

"He's starving, that's what he is," said the woman, "and he's hurt his
leg badly besides. The boys are allers ready to chuck stones at him
when they see him prowlin' round. He don't belong to no one."

Tim felt still more sorry; if he had seen the dog before, he thought, he
would have bought a "penn'orth" of liver for him instead of the
chestnuts. Now he could do nothing for him. He looked round at the old
woman, who was rocking herself to and fro with crossed arms, and said:

"Shall you give him any supper to-night?"

"Nay," she said with a sort of chuckle; "he's come too late to-night.
I've had my supper. There's many a one besides him as has to go
supperless."

The dog during this conversation was evidently conscious that he was
being noticed, for he trembled more than ever, and gazed up at Tim with
his pleading eyes.

"Pore feller, then," said the boy.

The kind voice woke some bygone memory in the animal; it reminded him
perhaps of the days when he belonged to somebody, and was treated
gently. He got up, slowly reared his poor stiff limbs into a begging
attitude, and wagged his short tail. He soon dropped down again, for he
was evidently weak, but he looked apologetically from the old woman to
Tim, as much as to say:

"I know it was a poor performance, but it was the best I could do. In
old days it used to please."

"See there now," said the woman, "someone must a taught him that. Maybe
he's bin a Punch's dog."

Tim stood absorbed in thought. He had forgotten Joshua, and the cart,
and his own important position as van-boy; one idea filled his mind.
Could he, ought he, might he take the dog home with him and h