Waddles, lying on the sunny side of the lilac hedge, was also waiting for this important evening happening; and though nothing in his appearance told that he was on the watch, for his back was toward the barn, yet he would know when Baldy crossed the yard to wash his hands at the pump, gauge the time he took to reach the house, and, without hurrying or looking round, be at his side the moment that the clashing of tin told that he had really come for the pails.

Seated on the stone wall, Anne and Miss Letty were also waiting, partly for Baldy, but chiefly to hear the evening music that would soon come from the wooded field edge and near-by garden, for it was a lovely May afternoon. In the morning there had been a warm rain that made worm pulling and bug hunting a pleasure instead of labour for the birds, and the air was full of scraps of song.

You have not met Happy before, or Miss Letty either. Happy was a beagle hound, with long, tan-coloured ears, the daintiest bit of a nose, a plump body marked and ticked with tan and black, and eyes of such beseeching softness that if she but looked at you when you were eating, you were impelled to give her the very last morsel, no matter what your hunger might be.Her legal name and pedigree was recorded in the Westminster Kennel Club register as “Cadence out of Melody, by Flute, breeder J. Sanford, Hilltop Kennels,” and really for two years of her life she had been merely a kennel dog. Now she was a lady of distinction, a real person beloved of Anne, Happy, of Happy Hall, mother of twin pups, Jack and Jill, and wife of no less honourable a person than Waddles, who, now past middle age, portly and sedate, was Mayor of Dogtown and an undisputed authority on all matters of dog law and etiquette.

If you should look for Dogtown on the map of the county where Happy Hall, Anne’s home, is located, you would not find it, for it is really concealed under the pretty name of Woodlands, and was discovered quite by accident by Anne’s Aunt Prue.

Now Aunt Prue was one of those ladies who prefer indoors to outdoors, and cats to dogs. The “Fireside Sphinx” has many virtues, and its rights should be respected, only it is a very strange thing that people who love cats cannot seem to fully appreciate dogs, which of course are the superior animals.

One day, a couple of years before this time, when Lumberlegs, the St. Bernard, then an awkward pup, was a new arrival, and the Widow Dog Lily, who had been rescued from starving by Miss Jule, had been adopted by Tommy and become his guardian, Aunt Prue had come unexpectedly to pay her brother, Anne’s father, a visit.

She had not intended to arrive unannounced, for she liked to be met by the best go-to-meeting surrey and pair. But travelling and even planning for it always flustered her; and when she wrote to tell of her plans, after spoiling three sheets of paper, she directed the letter to another brother in Texas. Consequently, when she arrived at the Woodlands station at noon of a blazing July day,—she always took midday trains, it’s apt to thunder in the afternoon,—there was no one there to meet her. “No, marm, no hacks here to-day,” said the station master in answer to her request for one; “no use in ’phoning the stable either, all the teams here about have gone to the Sunday-school picnic, and I reckon the only folks to home is dogs.” So saying he banged down his office window and drifted across the road to dinner.

Aunt Prue paused and set down a stout wicker basket with an openwork top that she carried, straightened her bonnet, felt in her glove to be sure that her trunk check and return ticket were safe. She always bought a return ticket as a sort of guarantee of safety, but usually lost it before it could be used.

She looked up the hill road. There was the store and post-office, then a quarter of a mile of open before the shade began, not a living thing was in sight; it was too hot for even the chickens to scratch up the dust.

The basket at her feet began to roll about uncannily, for in it was Miss Prue’s tortoise-shell tabby cat, which she always took visiting when she was going to stay more than two nights. In politics Miss Prue was a stanch monarchist of the old-time, “off-with-his-head” variety. The cat’s name was Kaiserin Augusta Victoria, and never, even in the most informal and playful moments, was she called either Gussie or Vic.

A violent scratching in the basket was followed by a long-drawn meow! Miss Prue took a small tin pan from her satchel and went toward the pump to give the pet a drink; but as she only pumped a couple of strokes, the water was tepid and not to her taste. She always gave the cat iced water, so she put up the tin. Poor K. A. V., smothering in the basket, would have been grateful for a lap of anything that was wet—even puddle water or sour milk; but she was not consulted, and her temper waxed fierce. If people could only realize that the faults of their pets are chiefly of their own making, they would be more careful to look at those things that concern an animal from its point of view instead of their own.

With one more glance at the road, Miss Prue settled the basket firmly on her arm and trudged off. Augusta Victoria was not happy and, moreover, she was determined to get out of the basket.

For a few moments she sat in sullen silence making herself heavy, as only an animal being moved against its will knows how to do. The post-office was reached, and Miss Prue paused a few moments to rest on the steps. Happy thought! There was a late morning mail; perhaps the family had not yet called for it, as they were sure to do, for her brother being a literary man was very particular about his letters. She would inquire.

“Nope,” replied the girl who was tending office during the noon hour and preparing to hie to the picnic later by taking her hair out of curl papers and combing it into a mossy-looking bank above her freckled forehead, “your folks live beyond a mile, and the rural delivery fetches ’em their letters most times.”

Poor Miss Prue! She crossed over to “the leading grocer’s,” where “soft drinks” were conspicuously advertised, and asked for a bottle of sarsaparilla.

“Sorry, madam,” said the solitary clerk, popping up in some confusion. He was finishing his toilet, preparatory to leaving, by shaving himself at a scrap of mirror resting on the cash register, and he came forward hurriedly with a billow of lather where his chin should have been. “I very much regret to say that all our liquid refreshments except molasses and vinegar are sold out on account of the picnic, but we still have a few Uneeda biscuits, madam, and a small wedge of superior extra mild cheese, if it would serve you for a luncheon. Ah, a drink! You don’t need a biscuit, not juicy enough. Ha! ha! I see,” and the chinless gentleman retired, laughing at his own wit.

Miss Prue merely gasped and walked on without answering. K. A. V. took a turn at scratching and lunging and then remained so passive that her mistress began to have qualms lest she should have fainted, yet did not dare open the basket. She leaned against the fence and listened, puss was breathing. The few cottages along the way were closed and silent; but as she got farther on where the larger places were scattered, her courage arose, for she remembered that the Burgess model farm barns were on the way, and that there was a well close by the fence.