a subconsciousness that his suffering would not be generally understood by other men.
"He was all I had," he muttered, apologetically. "I'm rather a lonely old man. I hadn't anybody else."
Then again:
"I might stand it better if it weren't for what David is undergoing. David won't understand it. He'll think I sold him. Oh me! Oh me! He'll think I wanted him to go."
On the second day he crawled up and moved about a little, but he was so weak that he came back to bed, and there he remained, half adoze and half awake, and did not try to get up again. No one came to inquire for him; his door remained unlocked, and his window, with the rude mosquito-bar that he had made for it, was open.
The soft June nights looked in gently, and the gleaming June days flashed brilliantly by the solitary man; he regarded both indifferently, for he was not any longer strong enough to care what happened; and so it came to be the fifth night since David and he were parted.
On this night, at a little past midnight, Jonathan started from a happy dream. He thought that he and David were together in a large house, among many people, and that David was showing off some of his pretty tricks, and that when he said: "Are you your master's dog, David? Bark once?—No? Bark twice?—Yes?" David, mad for joy, barked twice, and twice, and twice again, and clung to him and kissed him rapturously, and was never to be taken from him again till death, that separates the man and the wife, the child and the mother, the lover and the beloved, that spares no life and has mercy upon no love, should part the master and the dog; but nothing less—no, nothing else should come between them.
He woke to a tremendous fact. It was the voice of David barking at the door.
"Oh, my God!" cried Jonathan. "David! And I haven't got the strength to get there. David! Wait a minute till I try to get to you."
But David did not, could not, would not wait. While the old man, panting and shaking, was trying to get to his feet and stand on them, the collie came crashing through the window—glass and screen and all splintered around him—and with a mighty cry the two were in each other's arms.
It was not until noon of the next day that the lawful owner of David interrupted the rapturous reunion of the man and the dog. Jonathan, who had dreaded the reappearance of the coachman, received Mrs. Mersey with a forced composure which touched her instantly. Mrs. Mersey was a round, middle-aged, mother-hearted woman—not in the least the ideal Lady Bountiful that her old pensioner had pictured her; he had thought her to be some fashionable young lady, slender and remote. When Jonathan looked into her warm brown eyes, he thought, "Why, she's just a woman!"
"Madam," he began, tremulously, "I know the dog is yours. I—have had him a good while, that's all. And we love each other, madam. David couldn't— He had to run away, you see. . . . Look at the window where he broke in to get to me last night."
Jonathan's unsteady finger pointed proudly to the broken glass.
"He was in such a hurry," he said. "Madam—I would have returned him to you this morning. I know David is your property now. There, David! there, sir! Don't touch the lady. She's a kind lady, David. She'll do—the right thing." With both arms around the dog's neck the old man repeated the phrase confusedly:
"She will do—the right—thing. . . . You see, madam, I wasn't able to walk over to your house—with David. I haven't been very well since I lost David!"
His head fell back upon the pillow, and David's went beside it.
"When did you eat last?" cried Mrs. Mersey. The tears were driving down her cheeks. She did not offer to touch the dog, but moved about quickly in her rich, embroidered, thin dress, dexterously making a fire, tea, and toast, and cooking eggs, as if she had been some plain, experienced housewife. When she brought Jonathan the food he tried to swallow it, but put it down.
"Could I keep him—about a half an hour longer, madam?" he asked, humbly.
"You shall keep him forever!" blazed
