ss Katherine Wayneworth Jones.

She had a number of errands to do, and he followed her from place to
place.

She saw him first when she came out from the hair-dresser's. He seemed
to have been waiting for her. His heart was too experienced in being
broken for him to dance around her with barks of joy, but he stood a
little way off and wigglingly tried to ingratiate himself, his eyes
looking love, and the longing for love.

Impulsively Katie stooped down to him. "Poor little doggie, does he
want a pat?"

He fairly crouched to the sidewalk in his thankfulness for the pat, his
tail and eyes saying all they could.

Then she saw that he was following her. "Don't come with me, doggie," she
said; "please don't. You must go home. You'll get lost."

But in her heart Katie knew he would not get lost, for to be so
unfortunate as to be lost presupposed being so fortunate as to have a
home. And she knew that he was of the homeless. But because that was so
terrible a thing to face, between him and her she kept up that pretense
of a home.

When she came out from the confectioner's he was waiting for her again, a
little braver this time, until Katie mildly stamped her foot and told him
to "Go back!"

At the third place she expostulated with him. "Please, doggie, you're
making me feel so badly. Won't you run along and play?"

The hypocrisy of that left a lump in her throat as she turned from him.

When she found him waiting again she said nothing at all, but began
talking to Ann about some flowers in a window across the street.

Ann had seemed to dislike the dog. She would step away when Katie stopped
to speak to him and be looking intently at something else, as if trying
not to know that there were such things as homeless dogs.

Watts was waiting for them with the station wagon when they had finished
their shopping. After they had gone a little way Katie, in the manner of
one doing what she was forced to do, turned around.

He was coming after them. He had not yet fallen to the ranks of those
human and other living creatures too drugged in wretchedness to make a
fight for happiness. Nor was he finding it a sympathetic world in which
to fight for happiness. At that very moment a man crossing the street was
giving him a kick. He yelped and crouched away for an instant, but his
eyes told that the real hurt was in the thought of losing sight of the
carriage that held Katie Jones. As he dodged in and out, crouching always
be