Opening a side door of the carriage-house, Tom called out Pete and
Grip; Turk had a kennel of his own, and sleepily obeyed his master's
summons.

"Now Gem," said Tom, "I shall go round to the big barberry-bush, and
when the blanket comes down I shall send the dogs at it. They won't
hurt anybody,--they never do,--but they'll make believe to be awful
savage, and Grip will bark like mad. You'd better slip round into the
parlor and look through the blinds; it's dark there." Gem obeyed
softly, and Tom disappeared around the corner of the house, followed
by the dogs, who understood from their master's low order, that a
secret reconnaissance was to be made, and moved stealthily behind him
single file, big Turk first, then Pete Trone, Esq., and last of all
plebeian Grip, his tail fairly sweeping the ground in the excess of
his caution.

On the piazza all was peaceful and romantic. No thought of coming
danger clouded the poet's fancies, as he repeated a stanza composed
the previous evening by the light of the moon. "I never write by
gas-light, Miss Warrington," he said, "but I keep pencil and paper at
hand to transcribe the poetical thoughts that come to me in the
moonlight. Here is a verse that floated into my mind when the moon was
at its highest splendor last night:--

'Shine out, Oh moon! in the wide sky,--
The creamy cloud,--the dreamy light--
My heart is seething in the night.
Shine out, Oh moon! and let me die.'"

"I think we'd better let him, don't you?" whispered Hugh to Bessie at