An Unknown Friend



When Yee Kee announced lunch, the artist, the novelist, and the dog were
settled in their new home. In the afternoon, the painter spent an hour
or two fussing over portfolios of old sketches, in his studio; while
Conrad Lagrange and Czar lounged on the front porch.

Once, the dog rose quietly, and, walking sedately to the edge of the
porch toward the west, stood for some minutes gazing intently into the
dark green mass of the orange grave. At last, as if concluding that
whatever it was it was all right, he went calmly back to his place
beside the novelist's chair.

"Do you know,"--said the artist, as they sat on the porch that evening,
with their after-dinner pipes,--"I believe this old place is haunted."

"If it isn't, it ought to be," answered the other, contentedly--playing
with Czar's silky ears. "A good ghost would fit in nicely here, wouldn't
it--or he, or she. Its spookship would travel far to find a more
delightful place for spooking in, and--providing, of course, she were a
perfectly respectable hant--what a charming addition to our family he
would make. When it was weary of moping and mowing and sobbing and
wailing and gibbering, she could curl up at the foot of your bed and
sleep; as Czar, here, curls up and sleeps at the foot of mine. A good
ghost, you know--if he becomes really attached to you--is as constant
and faithful and affectionate and companionable as a good dog."