"I could 'a told _you_ that," retorted Tilda. "But as it 'appens, I
ain't one." She pointed to a brass letter-plate beside the wicket--it
was pierced with a slit, and bore the legend, _For Voluntary Donations_.
"Seems you collect a bit, though. Like it better, I dessay."

"Look here, if you've come with a message, let's 'ave it, an' take
yourself off. It's washing-day in the 'ouse, an' I'm busy."

"Ah!" said Tilda politely, "I'm glad I came before you begun.
I want"--here she unfolded her scrap of paper and made pretence to
read--"I want to see the Reverend Doctor Purdie J. Glasson."

"Then you can't," snapped the woman, and was about to shut the door in
her face, but desisted and drew back with a cry as a formidable yellow
dog slipped through the opening, past her skirts, and into the garden.

It was 'Dolph, of course. Anxiety for his mistress had been too much
for him, and had snapped the bonds of obedience; and knowing full well
that he was misbehaving, he had come up furtively, unperceived.
But now, having crossed the Rubicon, the rogue must brazen things out--
which he did by starting a cat out of one of the dingy laurels,
chivvying her some way into the house, and returning to shake himself on
the front doorstep and bark in absurd triumph.

"'Dolph! 'Dolph!" called Tilda.

"Belongs to you, does he? Then fetch him out at once! You, and your
dogs!"