POMONA ONCE MORE.


Sure enough, it was Pomona. There stood our old servant-girl, of
the canal-boat, with a crooked straw bonnet on her head, a faded
yellow parasol in her hand, a parcel done up in newspaper under her
arm, and an expression of astonishment on her face.

"Well, truly!" she ejaculated.

"Into the house, quick!" I said. "We have a savage dog!"

"And here he is!" cried Euphemia. "Oh! she will be torn to atoms."

Straight at Pomona came the great black beast, barking furiously.
But the girl did not move; she did not even turn her head to look
at the dog, who stopped before he reached her and began to rush
wildly around her, barking terribly.

We held our breath. I tried to say "get out!" or "lie down!" but
my tongue could not form the words.

"Can't you get up here?" gasped Euphemia.

"I don't want to," said the girl.

The dog now stopped barking, and stood looking at Pomona,
occasionally glancing up at us. Pomona took not the slightest
notice of him.