"Here 'tis! tak' yo' coat!" he cried passionately; and, tearing it off,
flung it down at his father's feet. "Tak' it--and---and----curse yo'/"

He banged out of the room and ran upstairs; and, locking himself
in, threw himself on to his bed and sobbed.

Red Wull made a movement to fly at the retreating figure; then
turned to his master, his stump-tail vibrating with pleasure.
But little M'Adam was looking at the wet coat now lying in a wet
bundle at his feet.

"Curse ye," he repeated softly. "Curse ye --ye heard him. Wullie?"

A bitter smile crept across his face. He looked again at the picture
now lying crushed in his hand.

"Ye canna say I didna try; ye canna ask me to agin," he muttered,
and slipped it into his pocket. "Niver agin, Wullie; not if the
Queen were to ask it."

Then he went out into the gloom and drizzle, still smiling the same
bitter smile.

That night, when it came to closing-time at the Sylvester Arms,
Jem Burton found a little gray-haired figure lying on the floor in
the tap-room. At the little man's head lay a great dog.

"Yo' beast!" said the righteous publican, regarding the figure of his
best customer with fine scorn. Then catching sight of a photograph