but, before narrating to you the death in the moonlight (which I have hard work not to turn into a poem, by the way), I should explain why our sensibilities, that night, were somewhat more than usual on the alert.
Our "pup," Quinty (Quintessence-of-ugliness being his name, but Quinty for shortness), had been for several days missing. We had not felt altogether comfortable about it, aside from his loss as a play-fellow—for there was a possibility that our family discipline (to make sure of his letting alone "that 'possum"), had exceeded the bounds of reason. I had, myself, a reproachful misgiving or two, and the children took Quinty's part altogether—though he was a terrier, "worst kind," and I had done it with a conscientious look at his "ugly mug," and a far reaching view of the temptation after dark, and his probably forgetfulness of himself and his obligations, in a tête-à-tête. At any rate, after being whipped prospectively, at the door of the 'possum's house—merely to establish the connection in his mind between whip and 'possum—the pup had "quit." Search through the neighborhood was in vain, and he had been gone, now three days, mournfully justified and regretted.
But, to proceed with the narrative.
Half-past ten, and we were sitting over the embers of the dining-room fire, a slice or two of boiled turkey on the table, and the cares of the day behind us. There was a moan outside. We ran each to a window, and looked out
