"Kiss my fluffy face!" said the Doctor in sepulchral tones.

"The owl is too high up," said Tiny, tossing her head.

The Doctor lifted her four feet or so, obtained his kiss, and set her
down again.

"You're not fluffy at all," said she in a tone of the utmost contempt;
"you're tickly and bristly. Puss is more fluffy, and Father is scrubby
and scratchy, because he shaves."

"And which of the three styles do you prefer?" said the Doctor.

"Not tickly and bristly," said Tiny with firmness; and she strutted up
the walk for a space or two, and then turned round to laugh over her
shoulder.

"Good-night!" shouted her victim, shaking his fist after her.

The other children took a noisy farewell, and they all raced into the
house to give joint versions of the fairy tale, first to the parents in
the drawing-room, and then to Nurse in the nursery.

The Doctor went home also, with his poodle at his heels, but not by the
way he came. He went out of his way, which was odd; but then the Doctor
was "a little odd," and moreover this was always the end of his evening
walk. Through the church-yard, where spreading cedars and stiff yews
rose from the velvet grass, and where among tombstones and crosses of
various devices lay one of older and uglier date, by which he stayed.
It was framed by a border of the most brilliant flowers, and it would