The torn Rose slipped to Mr. Marrapit's bosom. Clasping her he turned
upon William--"You shall pay for this blood!"

William stammered: "I'm very sorry, sir. If--"

"Never again enter my gates. I'll have your curs shot!"

Curs was unfortunate; the evil three were whelped of a mighty strain.

"If your fool of a man hadn't got in the way, the cat would have
escaped," William hotly cried. Indignant he turned. Banishment was
nothing then; in time it came to be a bitter thing.

Mr. Marrapit had raged on to Mr. Fletcher, yet writhing.

"You hear that?" he had cried. "Dolt! You are responsible for this!"
He touched the blood-flecked side, the abrased ear; clasped close the
Rose; called for warm water.

Mr. Fletcher clapped a hand to his wound as shakily he rose.

"I go to rescue his cat!" he said; "I'm near worried to death by
'ounds. I'm a dolt. I'm responsible. It's 'ard,--damn 'ard. I'm a
gardener, I am; not a dog muzzle."

A dimness clouded Margaret's beautiful eyes as this bitter picture--
she had watched it--was again reviewed. She murmured "Oh, Bill!";
stretched her soft arms to the night; moved her pretty lips in a
message to her lover; snuggled between the sheets and made melancholy
her bedfellow.