were given, and so he undertook to create sympathy by
describing the poor, whimpering little dog and the distress
of the two young women. By arousing the sympathies of
the readers, he was better able to impress them with the
benefits of the clinic.

The other day Daisy, a little fox terrier, was one of the patients.
She was a pretty little thing, three months old, with a silky coat
and big, pathetic eyes. She was escorted to the clinic by two
hatless young women, in shawls, and three children. The children
waited outside in the reception room, standing in a line, grinning
self-consciously, while the women followed Daisy into the
examination room. There she was gently muzzled with a piece of
bandage, and the doctor examined her. There was something the matter
with one hind leg, and the poor little animal whimpered pitifully,
as dogs do, while the doctor searched for a broken bone. It was too
much for one of the women. She left the room, and, standing outside
the door, put her fingers in her ears, while the tears rolled down
her cheeks.

"Well, I wouldn't cry for a dog," said a workman, putting in some
S.P.C.A. receiving boxes, with a grin, while the three children--and
children are always more or less little savages--grinned
sympathetically. But it was a very real sorrow for Daisy's mistress.

There was no reason for alarm; it was only a sprain, caused by her
mistress' catching the animal by the leg when she was giving her a
bath. Her friends were told to take her home, bathe the leg with
warm water, and keep her as quiet as possible. Her mistress, still
with a troubled face, wrapped her carefully in the black shawl she