and miserable, and no hand was stretched out
to her. So she had coddled and fondled him, gaining
his confidence day by day and talking to him by the
hour of whatever was uppermost in her mind.

Few friendships presented stronger contrasts: She
stout and motherly-looking--too stout for any waistline
--with kindly blue eyes, smooth gray hair--
gray, not white--her round, rosy face, framed in a
cotton cap, aglow with the freshness of the morning
--a comforting, coddling-up kind of woman of fifty,
with a low, crooning voice, gentle fingers, and soft,
restful hollows about her shoulders and bosom for the
heads of tired babies; Meg thin, rickety, and sneak-
eyed, with a broken tail that hung at an angle, and
but one ear (a black-and-tan had ruined the other)--
a sandy-colored, rough-haired, good-for-nothing cur
of multifarious lineage, who was either crouching
at her feet or in full cry for some hole in a fence
or rift in a wood-pile where he could flatten out
and sulk in safety.

Martha continued her talk to Meg. While she
had been studying the landscape he had taken the
opportunity to wallow in whatever came first, and
his wet hair was bristling with sand and matted with
burrs.

"Come here, Meg--you measly rascal!" she cried,
stamping her foot. "Come here, I tell ye!"