little ways, and now he's forgotten."

Everychild could scarcely conceal his surprise. He hadn't supposed it
was _that_ Hubbard. "And so this is where Old Mother Hubbard lives,"
he said, looking about him with new interest.

"It's where you'll find her at odd times," said Tom, "when she hasn't
got a committee meeting to attend, or a board meeting, or a convention,
or something. I shouldn't say she _lives_ anywhere."

"Still, everything is nice enough in its way," remarked Everychild,
"and I always thought she was very poor."

"Not at all," said Tom. "It was her 'poor dog.' That's what you have
in mind, I suppose. And there never was a poor dog except one with a
mean master or mistress."

At that moment, the little black dog, weary of looking at the cupboard,
approached Tom and flopped down beside him.

"And that's her dog," said Everychild musingly.

"He's mine, really," explained Tom, "though I always try to think of
him as hers. You take a fellow like me and he'd rather not own a dog.
He has to go out into the world sooner or later; and if he has a dog he
keeps thinking about him when he's away, and about there not being any
one to put water in his bowl, and open the gate for him or go with him
for a run. A dog likes to be with you, you know; and when you're gone
you keep seeing him all the while: waiting at the gate for you, or
outside your door. And you know all the time that some day when you're