eir shop in the city was not to
be compared with Buckley & Nunn's or Robertson & Moffat's, but it was a
good shop in its way, as this good home of the proprietors testified.

"Certainly," said young Mr Breen, whose name was Peter. "With pleasure.
By all means. Walk in, Miss Pennycuick."

She walked into a gorgeous drawing-room, where all was of the best, and
wore that shining air of furniture too valuable for daily use. Mr Peter
drew up a cream linen blind that was one mass of lace insertion, and
apologised anew for his unseemly costume.

"The fact is, Miss Pennycuick--I hope you won't be shocked at my doing
such things on Sunday--I was cleaning my gun. There is a holiday this
week, and I am going shooting with a friend. It was he I expected to
see when I went to the door in this state." "Oh," said Rose, more at
her ease, "I often do things on Sundays; I don't see why not. In fact,
I am doing something now--"

She cast about for words wherein to explain her errand, while he shot a
stealthy glance at her. Though not beautiful, like Deb and Francie, she
was a wholesome, healthy, bonnie creature, and he was as well aware of
her position in life as she was of his.

"I came, Mr Breen--I thought there were only servants in the house--I
am sure you must wonder how I can take such a liberty, such an utter
stranger, but I wanted to speak about that poor dog of yours--"

"Bruce--ah!" Enlightenment seemed to come to the young man. "You have
called to complain of the row he made last night. We were only saying
at breakfast--"

"No, no, indeed!" Rose spread out protesting hands, and ceased to feel
embarrassed. "Not to complain of him, poor dear, but--but--if you will
forgive such impertinence, to ask somebody--I thought I should see your
cook, who looks kind--to do something to make his life a little less
miserable."

"Miserable!" Mr Breen broke in, and sat up, stiffening, as if half
inclined to be offended, even with this very nice young lady.

"There isn't a dog in the country better off. We had his place in the
yard built on purpose for him; had his kennel made to a special
design--"

"A lovely kennel! I never saw a better."

"Clean straw every few days; all his food cooked--"

"But CHAINED, Mr Breen. And a collie, too!"

"Well, we couldn't have him messing all over the place; at any rate, my
people wouldn't. Oh, I assure you, Miss Pennycuick, Bruce is in clover.
He was only baying the moon. Dogs often do that. It