," said Horace, snapping
his fingers.

"Why, there it is, 'one B. W.' so quick!" cried Grace, holding up both
hands and laughing.

Horace opened his mouth in surprise, and then clapped his hand over it
in dismay. It was not a very fortunate beginning.

"Look here, Grace," said he, making a wry face; "I move we call that no
'count, and commence new to-morrow!"

So Grace waited till next day before she dated the merit-book.

All this while Pincher's foot was growing no better. Aunt Louise said
you could almost see the poor dog 'dwindle, peak, and pine.'

"But it's only his hurt," said Grace; "'tisn't a sickness."

"I reckon," returned Horace, sadly, "it isn't a _wellness_, neither."

"Why not send for Mrs. Duffy?" suggested aunt Madge. "If any one can
help the poor creature, it is she."

Mrs. Duffy was the village washerwoman, and a capital nurse. It was an
anxious moment for little Horace, when she unwrapped the crushed paw,
Pincher moaning all the while in a way that went to the heart.

"Wull," said Mrs. Duffy, who spoke with a brogue, "it's a bad-looking
fut; but I've some intment here that'll do no har-rum, and it may hulp
the poor craycher."

She put the salve on some clean linen cloths, and bound up the wound,
bidding them all be very careful that the dog "didn't stir his fut."

"O, but he don't want to stir!" said Horace. "He just lies down by the
stove all day."

Mrs. Duffy shook her head, and said, "he was a pooty craycher; 'twas
more the pities that he ever went off in the wuds."

Horace hung his head. O, if he could have blotted out that day of
disobedience!

"Wasn't it a real rebel, _heathen_ man," cried Prudy, "to put the trap
where Pincher sticked his foot in it?"

Pincher grew worse and worse. He refused his food, and lay in a basket
with a cushion in it, by the kitchen stove, where he might have been a
little in the way, though not even aunt Louise ever said so.

If Grace, or Susy, or Prudy, went up to him, he made no sign. It was
only when he saw his little master that he would wag his tail for joy;
but even that effort seemed to tire him, and he liked better to lick
Horace's hand, and look up at his face with eyes brimful of love and
agony.

Horace would sit by the half hour, coaxing him to eat a bit of broiled
steak or the wing of a chicken; but though the poor dog would gladly
have pleased his young master, he could hardly force himself to swallow
a mouthful.

These were sad da