The front door was open into the sitting-room, and the silver poplar showed, tall and slim, beyond the shining space. The tree did not tremble more than Jonathan's happy hands when he brought them together in his favorite, unconscious gesture.
"Ah," said Mrs. Mersey, smiling, "the Albert Dürer!"
"Madam?" asked the old man, with quickly troubled perplexity.
"Sometime I will show you. Are you fond of pictures, Jonathan? Did you ever care for them?"
"My training was in mathematics, madam. My education in art was deficient."
"Ah!—Do you mind telling me what you were, Mr. Perch, in your younger life? What was your business—or—profession?" Jonathan's gray head lifted a little. He could not remember when any one had called him Mr. Perch.
"I was a teacher of algebra and geometry at the Normal School," he answered, gently.
"Let me see what the dog can do," replied the lady, brusquely. But her white glove stole to her wet lashes. So Jonathan showed the summer divinity what David could do.
The sable collie, as his master had averred, was not a common dog. When Jonathan said, "Bring your blocks, David," David found his blocks and spread them out upon the bare floor.
"Give us the alphabet, David." And David arranged the alphabet.
"Spell dog, David." And David spelled dog.
"Master, David." And David spelled master.
The lady, absorbed, sat leaning forward, silently. The old man's face had grown serious and studious. He stood opposite the collie and regarded him fixedly. The dog's face indicated a close intellectual strain, not unmixed with anxiety.
"Spell lady, David," commanded Jonathan, slowly. "L-a-d-y. L-a-d-y."
David lifted his head, hesitated, shoved his blocks about uncertainly. He had for a moment an expression of distress. Evidently this was a lesson never learned before. The star on his forehead showed more than usual, and the dog seemed to be at a disadvantage, and to be aware of it.
Jonathan, fixing his eyes upon the dog, repeated firmly,
"L-a-d-y, David."
The dog pushed the blocks impatiently. L—A— He stopped and whined.
"D," repeated his master.
David uttered a sound between a bark and a gasp, but slowly finished spelling lady.
"Rest a minute," said his master, patting him with a proud and loving hand, "and then we'll count a little, David."
When the collie had rested, he began to count; this he did with ease and pleasure, for it was plainly an accustomed task. He counted to five. He counted to ten. He counted to twenty.
"He can add and subtract," cried the old man, proudly.
"I'll believe it when I see it!" protested the lady. She was as much excited now as the man and the dog.
"Two and two are how many, David?" demanded Jonathan, in a loud, firm voice.
David barked four times.
"Six from nine leaves how many, David?"
And David did bark thrice.
"It is astounding! Incredible! How do you do it? How do you do it?" exclaimed Mrs. Mersey. She drew her breath hard.
"That is my secret," replied the old mathematician, with dignity. "You have a right to it, madam, if you insist," he added, quickly and contritely.
"I insist on nothing, Mr. Perch," said the lady, impetuously,—"except that you shall become a self-supporting, self-respecting citizen. And—give me three days to think it over—I think—I am not sure—that I see a way."
She vanished from his cottage as wonderfully as she had entered it; and for three days Jonathan saw her no more.
On the fourth morning her victoria and black pair appeared at the old man's gate. Peter had a repressed and melancholy expression, and the footman, with considerable manner, brought Jonathan a note.
"Dear Mr. Perch," it ran, "a few
