he was entirely
unable to account for the effect of his answer on both the others. They
turned quickly toward each other with a look of eager interest, mingled
with something else which he could not understand.

"I thought your collie went mad," said Brent.

"Oh, you heard that report, then?"

"Yes. The last time your sister was here she mentioned it. Was there
nothing in it?"

"It wasn't even founded on an apparent fact," said the young farmer,
smiling and looking down at the dog, which immediately began wagging its
tail so forcibly that at least one-third of its body partook of the
motion. "The men on my mother's farm have regaled themselves so often
with stories about mad dogs that they have become their pet horror. When
I came home I found that their fire from behind intrenchments had driven
poor Mac off the place; though if he had been better acquainted with
their marksmanship he would probably have gone to sleep while they were
shooting at him. I went out to hunt for him, and found him at a house
near the village, as free from hydrophobia as I am. To make sure, I
traced the dog that bit him back to its owner's hut in the mountains,
and found it there, sneaking around the lot and looking as vicious and
mean-spirited as ever. Its master said the dog that was shot came from
the other side of the mountains, and was worth a dozen such curs as
his."

Rena stepped into the road and began stroking the dog's head and neck.
As she did so, her father came out of the house, and, seeing Barndollar
at the gate, he came down to speak to him.

While the two farmers were talking, Brent walked away to a grove of oaks
near the road and a short distance below the gate. Standing among the
trees as the twilight came on, he thought over the episode which had
just come to a close, and wondered at its effect on him. Instead of
pondering over the uncertainties of the case until it lost all reality
to him, he had been too much concerned to think of probabilities at all.
Sensibility had overcome his agnosticism, and he had forgotten that it
was possible to doubt. He knew he had not acted philosophically; but he
felt that philosophy, compared with sympathy and self-forgetfulness, is
of very slight account.

* * * * *

Professor Helfenstein returned to the little Pennsylvania village at the
time he had indicated, which was about the middle of October. The
innkeeper told him his friend had not yet left t