shook hands with Miss Laura and Mr. Maxwell, who seemed to be
an old friend of his. They all sat down on the veranda and talked,
and I lay at Miss Laura's feet and looked at Mr. Harry. He was such
a handsome young man, and had such a noble face. He was older
and graver looking than when I saw him last, and he had a light,
brown mustache that he did not have when he was in Fairport.

He seemed very fond of his mother and of Miss Laura, and
however grave his face might be when he was looking at Mr.
Maxwell, it always lighted up when he turned to them. "What dog
is that?" he said at last, with a puzzled face, and pointing to me.

"Why, Harry," exclaimed Miss Laura, "don't you know Beautiful
Joe, that you rescued from that wretched milkman?"

"Is it possible," he said, "that this well-conditioned creature is the
bundle of dirty skin and bones that we nursed in Fairport? Come
here, sir. Do you remember me?"

Indeed I did remember him, and I licked his hands and looked up
gratefully into his face. "You're almost handsome now," he said,
caressing me with a firm, kind hand, "and of a solid build, too.
You look like a fighter but I suppose you wouldn't let him fight,
even if he wanted to, Laura," and he smiled and glanced at her.

"No," she said; "I don't think I should; but he can fight when the
occasion requires it." And she told him about our night with
Jenkins.

All the time she was speaking, Mr. Harry held me by the paws, and