pressed it. "We shall meet again," he gently said.

The sick man turned towards him with a consoled and grateful look.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," he feebly murmured. "Remind me about
that dog."

Then he passed peacefully away, with a sweet smile upon his pale lips.

Brown, who had had his dog story and was satisfied, wanted us to settle
our heroine; but the rest of us did not feel equal to settling anybody
just then. We were thinking of all the true dog stories we had ever
heard, and wondering which was the one least likely to be generally
disbelieved.

MacShaughnassy, in particular, was growing every moment more restless and
moody. Brown concluded a long discourse--to which nobody had listened--by
remarking with some pride, "What more can you want? The plot has never
been used before, and the characters are entirely original!"

Then MacShaughnassy gave way. "Talking of plots," he said, hitching his
chair a little nearer the table, "that puts me in mind. Did I ever tell
you about that dog we had when we lived in Norwood?"

"It's not that one about the bull-dog, is it?" queried Jephson anxiously.

"Well, it was a bull-dog," admitted MacShaughnassy, "but I don't think
I've ever told it you before."

We knew, by experience, that to argue the matter would only prolong the