cowered in one corner of the crate. Just then two station-hands
began to move the express packages out to the edge of the
platform. One of them noticed the displaced board of the crate.
He drove home its loosened nails with two sharp taps from a
monkey-wrench, glanced inside to make certain the dog had not
gotten out, and presently hoisted the crate aboard the express-
car.

Two hours later the crate was unloaded at a waystation. At seven
in the morning an expressman drove two miles with it to a
country-home, a mile or so from the village where Lass had been
disembarked from the train.

An eager knot of people--the Mistress, the Master and two
gardeners--crowded expectantly around the crate as it was set
down on the lawn in front of The Place's veranda. The latch was
unfastened, and the crate's top was lifted back on its hinges.

Out stepped Lass,--tired, confused, a little frightened, but
eagerly willing to make friends with a world which she still
insisted on believing was friendly. It is hard to shake a collie
pup's inborn faith in the friendliness of mankind, but once
shaken, it is more than shaken. It is shattered beyond hope of
complete mending.

For an instant she stood thus, looking in timid appeal from one
to another of the faces about her. These faces were blank enough
as they returned her gaze. The glad expectancy was wiped from
them as with a sponge. It was the Master who first found voice.