And so back to Lass.

When would-be purchasers were conducted to the puppy-run at the
Rothsay kennels, Lass and her six brethren and sisters were wont
to come galloping to the gate to welcome the strangers. For the
pups were only three months old--an age when every event is
thrillingly interesting, and everybody is a friend. Three times
out of five, the buyer's eye would single Lass from the
rollicking and fluffy mass of puppyhood.

She was so pretty, so wistfully appealing, so free from fear (and
from bumptiousness as well) and carried herself so daintily, that
one's heart warmed to her. The visitor would point her out. The
kennel-man would reply, flatteringly--

"Yes, she sure is one fine pup!"

The purchaser never waited to hear the end of the sentence,
before turning to some other puppy. The pronoun, "she," had
killed forever his dawning fancy for the little beauty.

The four males of the litter were soon sold; for there is a brisk
and a steady market for good collie pups. One of the two other
females died. Lass's remaining sister began to "shape up" with
show-possibilities, and was bought by the owner of another
kennel. Thus, by the time she was five months old, Lass was left
alone in the puppy-run.

She mourned her playmates. It was cold, at night, with no other