recognized grief, and knew perfectly well what to do. Stepping quietly over to the prostrate figure he encircled it once, looking for a point of vantage, then selecting two little white, pink-tipped fingers, he licked them caressingly.
The sobbing ceased: the girl drew a longer shaking breath.
"Is that you, Mimi?" she said huskily, "I didn't know you cared as much as—oh, what is that?"
Her hand had fallen on the little bull-dog's smooth, stiff coat and she started up in surprise. Caroline smiled shyly into her big, stained gray eyes.
"It's all right—Henry D. never bites—do you feel bad?" she asked.
The girl pushed back a handful of crinkly, chestnut hair from her damp face and rose, shaking out her skirts.
"Y—yes," she said, frankly, "yes, I do. Do you know why?"
"No. Why?" Caroline inquired.
"Because I can't make huckleberry bread,"
