Fido had been in the office alone for almost three hours. The old man, who he knew was his master, and the young man, who was inclined to be impatient with him when he felt playful, had both gone out. The door was locked and there was nobody on the other side of it to answer a vigorous scratch or even a pleading whine. When people knocked, they went away again, almost immediately.

The window-sills were too high for a little dog to reach, and there was no chair near. He walked restlessly around the office, stopping at intervals to sit down and thoughtfully contemplate his feet, which were much too large for the rest of him. He chased a fly that tickled his ear, but it eluded him, and now buzzed temptingly on a window-pane, out of his reach.

It seemed that something serious must have happened, for Fido had never been left alone so long before. If he had known that the old man was conversing pleasantly with some fellow-citizens at the grocery store, and that the young one had his arm around a laughing girl in white, trying to teach her to walk, he would have been very indignant indeed.

Several times, lately, Fido had noticed, the young man had gone out shortly after the old one went to the post-office. It would be, usually, half a day later when his master returned with a letter or two, or often with none. The young man took pains to get back before the old one did, which was well, for there should always be someone in a lawyer's office to receive clients and keep dogs from being lonely.

The pangs of a devastating hunger assailed Fido, which was not strange, for it was long past the hour when the old man usually took a bulky parcel out of his desk, spread a newspaper upon the floor, and bade Fido eat of cold potatoes, meat, and bread. There was, nearly always, a nice, juicy bone to beguile the tedium of the afternoon. Fido and the old man seldom went home to supper before half past five, and Fido would have been famished were it not for the comfort of the bone.

He sniffed around the larger of the two desks. A tempting odour came from a drawer far above. He stood on his hind legs and reached up as far as he could, but the drawer was closed. So was every other drawer in the office, except one, and that was in the young man's desk. Probably there was nothing in it for a hungry dog—there never had been.

Still, it might be well to investigate. Fido laboriously climbed up on the chair and put his paws upon the edge of the open drawer. There was nothing in it but papers and a small, square, red box with a rubber band around it.

Fido took the box in his mouth and jumped down. He pushed it with paws and nose over to his own particular corner, sniffing appreciatively meanwhile. It took much vigorous chewing to get the rubber band off and to make a hole in one corner of the box, out of which rolled a great number of small, cylindrical objects. They were not like anything Fido had ever eaten before, but hungry little dogs must take what they can find. So he gulped them all down but one. This one refused to be swallowed and Fido quickly repented of his rashness, for it was distinctly not good. He ate the rubber band and all but a little piece of the red box before the taste was quite gone out of his mouth. Even then, a drink of fresh, cool water would have been very acceptable, but there was nobody to care whether a little dog died of thirst or not.

The bluebottle fly buzzed loudly upon the window-pane, but Fido no longer aspired to him. A vast weariness took the place of his former restlessness. He sat and blinked at his ill-assorted feet for some time, then dragged himself lazily toward his cushion in the corner. Before he reached it, he was so very sleepy that he lay down upon the floor. In less than five minutes, he was off to the canine dreamland, one paw still caressingly laid over the fragments of the little red box.

When the Judge came in, an hour later, he was much surprised to find the office locked and the cards of three valued clients on the floor under the door. There had been four, but Fido had eaten the first one. Two of them were marked with the hour of the call. It indicated, plainly, to a logical mind, that Roger had left the office soon after he did, and had not returned. It was very strange.

Fido slumbered on, though hitherto the sound of his master's step would awaken him to noisy and affectionate demonstrations. The Judge turned Fido over with a friendly foot, but there was no answer save a wide yawn. He brought the parcel of bread and meat and opened it, leaving it on the floor close by. Then he took a chicken bone and held it to the sleeper's nose, but Fido turned away as though from an annoying fly.

As the dog had never before failed to take immediate interest in a chicken bone, the Judge was alarmed. He picked up the fragments of the little red box and wondered if anyone could have poisoned his pet. He brought fresh water, but Fido, hitherto possessed of an unquenchable thirst, failed to respond.

When Roger came in, belated and breathless, he found his explanations coldly received. Whether or not Barbara North ever walked was evidently a matter of no particular concern to the Judge. It was also of no immediate importance that clients had come and found the office empty, even though one of them, presumably, had intended to settle an account of long standing. The vital question was simply this: what was the matter with Fido?

Roger did not know. Though Fido's disdain of food and drink might be abnormal, his position on the floor and his deep breathing were quite natural.

Then the fragments of the little red box were presented to Roger, and inquiry made as to the contents. Also, had Roger tried to poison the Judge's pet?

Roger had not. The box had contained a prescription for lumbago which Doctor Conrad had given his mother. It was in the drawer in his desk. He might possibly have left the drawer open—probably had, as the box was gone.

The Judge was deeply desirous of knowing why Mrs. Austin's lumbago cure should be kept in the office, within reach of unwary pets. After considerable hesitation, Roger explained.

The owner of Fido was highly incensed. First, he condemned the entire procedure as "criminal carelessness," setting forth his argument in unparliamentary language. Then, remembering that Roger had not really loved Fido, he brought forth an unworthy motive, and accused the hapless young man of murderous intent.

Roger would kindly borrow the miniature express waggon which was the prized possession of the postmaster's small son, place the cushion in it, with its precious burden, and convey Fido, with all possible tenderness, to his other and larger cushion in the Judge's own bedroom. He would take the cold chicken, too, please, for if Fido ever wanted anything again in this world, it would probably be chicken.

The Judge would follow as soon as he had written to his clients and expressed his regret that his clerk's numerous social duties did not permit of his giving much time to his business. And, the Judge added, as an afterthought, if Fido should die, it would not be necessary for Roger to return to the office. He wanted someone who could be trusted not to poison his dog while he was out.

Roger was too much disturbed to be conscious of the ludicrous aspect he presented to the public eye as he went down the main thoroughfare of Riverdale, dragging the small cart which contained the slumbering Fido and his cushion. He did not even hear the pointed comments made by the young of both sexes whom he encountered on his interminable walk, and forgot to thank the postmaster for the loan of the cart when he returned it, empty save for a fragment of cold chicken and a faint, doggy smell.

For obvious reasons, he could not go to the office and he did not like to take his disturbing mood to Barbara. Besides, his mother, who now had long wakeful periods in the daytime, might see him and ask unpleasant questions. He went down to the beach, yearning for solitude, and settled himself in the shelter of a sand dune to meditate upon the unhappy events of the day.

He did not realise that the sand dune belonged to Eloise, and that she was wont to sit there with Doctor Conrad, out of the wind, and safely screened from the argus-eyed rocking-chairs on the veranda. He was so preoccupied that he did not even hear the sound of their voices as they approached. Turning the corner quickly, they almost stumbled over him.

"Upon my word," cried Eloise. "Sir Knight of the Dolorous Countenance, what has gone wrong?"

"Nothing," answered Roger, miserably.

"Anybody dead?" queried Allan, lazily stretching himself upon the sand.

"Not yet, but somebody is dying."

"Who?" demanded Eloise. "Barbara, or your mother? Who is it?"

"Fido," said Roger hopelessly, staring out to sea.

Allan laughed, but Eloise returned, kindly: "I didn't know you had a dog. I'm sorry."

"He isn't mine," explained Roger; "I only wish he were. If he had been," he added, viciously, "he'd have died a violent death long ago."

Little by little, the whole story came out. Allan kept his face straight with difficulty, but Eloise was genuinely distressed. "Don't worry," she said, sympathetically. "If Fido dies and the Judge won't take you back, I can probably find an opening for you in town. Your office work will pay your expenses, so you can go to law school in the evenings and be ready for your examinations in the Spring."

"Oh, Miss Wynne," cried Roger. "How good you are! I don't wonder Barbara calls you her Fairy Godmother."

"Barbara is coming to town to spend the Winter with me," Eloise went on, happily. "She's never had a good time and I'm going to give her one. As soon as she's strong enough, and can walk well, I'm going to take her, bag and baggage. It's all I'm waiting here for."

In a twinkling, Roger's despair was changed to something entirely different. "Oh," he cried, "I do hope Fido will die. Do you think there is any chance?" he asked, eagerly, of Allan.

"I should think, from what you tell me," remarked Allan, judicially, "that Fido was nearly through with his earthly troubles. A dose of that size might easily keep any of us from worrying any longer about the price of meat and next month's rent."

"Mother won't like it," said Roger, soberly. "She may not be willing for me to go."

"She should be," returned Allan, "as you've saved her life at the expense of Fido's. When I go up to see Barbara this afternoon, I'll stop in and tell her."

Miss Mattie was awake, but yawning, when he knocked at her door. "There wasn't no call for you to come," she said, inhospitably; "the medicine ain't used up yet."

"Let me see the box, please."

She shuffled off to the kitchen cupboard and brought it to him. There were half a dozen flour-filled capsules in it. Allan observed that the druggist, in writing the directions on the cover, had failed to add the last two words.

"Idiot," he said, under his breath. "I wrote, 'Take two every four hours until relieved.'"

"I was relieved," explained Miss Mattie, "and I've had fine sleep ever since. It's wore off considerable in the last three days, though."

Allan then told her, in vivid and powerful language, how the druggist's error might have had very serious results, had it not been for Roger's presence of mind in substituting the flour-filled capsules for the "searching medicine." He was surprised to find that Miss Mattie was ungrateful, and that she violently resented the imposition.

"Roger's just like his pa," she said, with the dull red rising in her cheeks. "He never had no notion of economy. When I'm takin' a dollar and twenty cents' worth of medicine, to keep it from bein' wasted, Roger goes and puts flour into the covers of it, and feeds the expensive medicine to Judge Bascom's Fido. He thinks more of that dog than he does of his sick mother."

"My dear Mrs. Austin," said Allan, solemnly, "have you not heard the news?"

"What news?" she demanded, bristling.

"Little Fido is dying. He took all the medicine and has been asleep ever since. By morning, he will be dead."

Miss Mattie's jaw dropped. "Would you mind tellin' me," she asked, suspiciously, "why you took it on yourself to give me medicine that would pizen a dog? I might have took it all at once, to save it. Once I was minded to."

"Roger saved your life," said Allan, endeavouring to make his tone serious. "And because of it, he is about to lose his position. The Judge is so disturbed over Fido's approaching dissolution that he has told Roger never to come back any more. Unless we can find him a place in town, he has sacrificed his whole future to save his mother's life."

"Where is Roger?"

"I left him down on the beach, with Miss Wynne. I suppose he is still there."

"When you see him," commanded Miss Mattie, with some asperity, "will you kindly send him home? It's no time for him to be gallivantin' around with girls, when his mother's been so near death."

"I will," Allan assured her, reaching for his hat. "I hope you appreciate what he has done for you."

When he went down the road, his shoulders were shaking suspiciously. Miss Mattie was watching him through the lace curtains that glorified the parlour windows. "Seems as if he had St. Vitus's dance," she mused. "Wonder why he doesn't mix up some dog-pizen, and cure himself?"

When he was sure that he was out of sight, Allan sat down on a convenient boulder at the side of the road, and gave himself up to unrestrained mirth. The medicine which was about to prove fatal to Fido would have caused only prolonged sleep if taken in small doses, at proper intervals, by an adult. "It's a wonder she didn't take 'em all at once," he thought. "And if she had—" He speculated, idly, upon the probable effect.

His conscience pricked him slightly on account of the exaggeration in which he had mischievously indulged, but he told himself that Roger would be far better off in the city and his mother's consent would make his going much less difficult. He also realised that if Roger were there to amuse Barbara, Eloise might have more spare time than she would otherwise.

He stopped long enough to give the druggist a bad quarter of an hour, and then went back to the beach. Eloise and Roger were where he had left them, and the boy's gloom was entirely gone.

"Your mother wants you," he said, as he sat down on the other side of Eloise.

"All right—I'll go right up. How did she take it?"

"Very well. Just remember that you've saved her life, and you'll have no trouble."

When Roger went up the street, he was whistling, from sheer light-heartedness. Eloise had made so many plans for his future that he saw fame and fortune already within his reach.

When he knocked, never having been allowed the freedom of a latch key, he noted that all the blinds in the house were closed and wondered whether his mother had gone to sleep again. After a suitable interval, she opened the door, clad in her best black silk, and portentously solemn.

"Why, Mother, what's the matter?"

"Come in," she whispered. "Doctor Conrad has just been tellin' me how near I come to death. Oh, my son," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck, "you have saved my life."

It seemed to Roger like a paragraph torn from The Metropolitan Weekly, but he patted her back soothingly as she clung to him. Maternal outbursts of this sort were extremely rare. He remembered only one other greeting like this—the day he had been swimming in the river with three other small boys and had been brought home in a blanket, half drowned.

"I suppose I shouldn't regret takin' dog-pizen, if it cured my back and give me the sleep I needed, but it was a dreadful narrow escape. And your takin' the medicine away from me and feedin' it to Fido was certainly clever, Roger. Every day you remind me more and more of your pa."

"Thank you," answered Roger. He was struggling with various emotions and found speech almost impossible.

"It's no more'n right," she resumed, "that, after having pizened Fido and lost you your place, that Doctor Conrad should stir himself around and get you a better place in the city, but I do hate to have you go, Roger. It'll be dreadful lonesome for me."

"Cheer up, Mother; I haven't gone yet. The dog may get well."

Miss Mattie shook her head sadly. "No, he won't," she sighed. "I took enough of that medicine to know how powerful it is, and Fido ain't got no chance. To-morrow I'll look over your things."

An atmosphere of solemnity pervaded the house, and the evening was spent very quietly. Miss Mattie read her Bible, as on Sunday evenings when she did not go to church, and sternly refused to open The Housewife's Companion, which lay temptingly near her.

She went to bed early, and Roger soon followed her, having strangely lost his desire to read, and not daring to go to see Barbara more than once a day. His night was made hideous by visions of himself drawing the cart containing the slumbering Fido into the church where Eloise and Doctor Conrad were being married, while Judge Bascom at the house, was conducting Miss Mattie's funeral.

In the morning, after breakfast, Roger seriously debated whether or not he should go down to the office. At last he tossed up a coin and muttered a faint imprecation as he picked it up.

With his hat firmly on and his hands in his pockets, Roger fared forth, whistling determinedly. He did not want to go to the office, and he dreaded, exceedingly, his next meeting with the irascible Judge.

As it happened, it was not necessary for him to go, for, at the corner of the street which led to the Judge's house, he met the postmaster's small son, laboriously dragging the fateful cart of yesterday. In it were all of Roger's books and other belongings, including an umbrella which he had loaned to the Judge on a rainy night and expected never to see again.

The message was brief and very much to the point. Fido had died painlessly at four o'clock that morning.