dog-basket of brown wicker in a corner.

Muffin, Derry's Airedale, stood at attention as his master came in. He
knew that the length of his sojourn depended on his manners.

A bright fire was burning, a long chair slanted across the hearthrug.
Derry got into a gray dressing gown and threw himself into the chair.
Muffin, with a solicitous sigh, sat tentatively on his haunches. His
master had had no word for him. Things were very bad indeed, when
Derry had no word for his dog.

At last it came. "Muffin--it's a rotten old world."

Muffin's tail beat the rug. His eager eyes asked for more.

It came--"Rotten."

Derry made room among the pillows, and Muffin curled up beside him in
rapturous silence. The fire snapped and flared, flickered and died.
Bronson tiptoed in to ask if Derry wanted him. Young Martin, who
valeted Derry when Bronson would let him, followed with more proffers
of assistance.

Derry sent them both away. "I am going to bed."

But he did not go to bed. He read a letter which his mother had
written before she died. He had never broken the seal until now. For
on the outside of the envelope were these words in fine feminine
script: "Not to be opened until the time comes when my boy Derry is
tempted to break his promise."