afternoon, Claudius descended the hill and went up as usual to his
chamber above the river, to spend an hour indoors before going to
supper. It was a beautiful evening, and he left his door partly open on
to the landing that the breeze might blow through the room as he sat by
the window. A book was in his hand before he had sat many moments, from
sheer force of habit; but he did not read. The sounds of the street rose
pleasantly to his ear as the little boys and girls played together
across each other's doorsteps. To tell the truth, it all seemed very far
off, much farther than three flights of steps from the little crowd
below to the solitary nest of learning aloft where he sat; and Dr.
Claudius was, in his thoughts, incalculably far away from the
shoemaker's Hans and the tinman's Gretel and their eight-year-old
flirtation. Claudius was flirting with his fancies, and drawing pretty
pictures in the smoke, with dark eyes and masses of black hair; and then
he moved uneasily, and came back to his threadbare proposition that he
was old, and that it was absurd that he should be.

"Ah! what would I not give to enjoy it all--to feel I could wish one
moment to remain!" He sighed and leaned back in the straight-backed
chair. The door creaked slightly, he thought it was the evening wind. It
creaked again; he turned his head, and his gaze remained riveted on the
opening. A beautiful pair of dark eyes were fixed on him, deep and
searching, and on meeting his, a great silky black head was pushed
forward into the room, and a magnificent black hound stalked slowly
across the floor and laid his head on the Doctor's knee with a look of
evident inquiry.

Claudius was fond of animals, and caressed the friendly beast, wondering
to whom he might belong, and speculating whether the appearance of the
dog heralded the approach of a visitor. But the dog was not one of those