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‘But,’ cried Miss Millikin, ‘we have knocked off his grub, as you call it. The poor dog is starved–literally starved.’

Mr. Netherby said he should scarcely have supposed so from his appearance.

‘But I assure you he has eaten nothing–positively nothing–for days and days!’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Netherby, ‘chameleon, is he? then he’s had too much air–that’s all.’

Just then a young lady who had been brought by some friends living close by joined the group: ‘Why,’ she said at once, ‘that’s the little steamer dog. How did he come here?’

‘He is not a little steamer dog,’ said Miss Millikin in her most dignified manner; ‘he is my dog.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know,’ said the first speaker; ‘but–but I’m sure I’ve seen him on the steamer several times lately.’

‘I never use the steamers unless I’m absolutely obliged–I disapprove of them: it must have been some other dog.’

The young lady was positive she had made no mistake. ‘You so seldom see a dog with just those markings,’ she said, ‘and I don’t think anybody was with him; he came on board at Amblemere and went all round the lake with us.’

‘At Amblemere!’ cried Daisy, ‘that’s where we live; and, Aunt Sophy, you know Don has been away all day lots of times lately.’

‘What did this dog do on the steamer?’ asked Miss Millikin faintly.

‘Oh, he was so sweet! he went round to everybody, and sat up so prettily till they gave him biscuits and things–he was everybody’s pet; we were all jealous of one another for the honour of feeding him. The second time we brought buns on purpose. But we quite thought he belonged to the steamer.’

Young Mr. Netherby laughed. ‘So that is how he took the air! I thought I wasn’t far wrong,’ he said.

‘Put him back in the cart, Daisy,’ said Miss Millikin severely; ‘I can’t bear to look at him.’

Don did his best to follow this dialogue, but all he could make out was that it was about himself, and that he was being as usual exceedingly admired. So he sat and looked as good and innocent and interesting as he knew how. Just then he felt that he would almost rather they did not offer him anything to eat–at least not anything very sweet and rich, for he was still not at all well. It was a relief to be back in the cart and in peace again, though he wondered why Daisy didn’t kiss the top of his head as she had done several times in carrying him to the lawn. This time she held him at a distance, and said nothing but two words, which sounded suspiciously like ‘You pig!’ as she put him down.

Miss Millikin was very grave and silent as they drove home. ‘I can’t trust myself to speak about it, Daisy,’ she said; ‘if–if it was true, it shows such an utter want of principle–such deceit; and Don used to be so honest and straightforward! What if we make inquiries at the pier? It–it may be all a mistake.’

They stopped for this purpose at Amblemere. ‘Ay, Miss Millikin, mum, he cooms ahn boord reglar, does that wee dug,’ said the old boatman, ‘and a’ makes himsel’ rare an’ frien’ly, a’ do–they coddle him oop fine, amang ’em. Eh, but he’s a smart little dug, we quite look for him of a morning coomin’ for his constitutionil, fur arl the worl’ like a Chreestian!’

‘Like a very greedy Christian!’ said his disgusted mistress. ‘Daisy,’ she said, when she returned to the pony-cart, ‘it’s all true! I–I never have been so deceived in any one; and the worst of it is, I don’t know how to punish him, or how to make him feel what a disgraceful trick this is. Nobody else’s dog I ever heard of made his mistress publicly absurd in this way. It’s so–so ungrateful!’

‘Aunt Sophy,’ said Daisy, ‘I’ve an idea. Will you leave him to me, and pretend you don’t suspect anything? I will cure him this time!’