though he speaks so sharply. When you get tired of us go out in the
garden and have a romp with Jim."

But I must return to the conversation I referred to. It was one fine
June day, and Mrs. Morris was sewing in a rocking-chair by the
window. I was beside her, sitting on a hassock, so that I could look
out into the street. Dogs love variety and excitement, and like to
see what is going on outdoors as well as human beings. A carriage
drove up to the door, and a finely-dressed lady got out and came
up the steps.

Mrs. Morris seemed glad to see her, and called her Mrs. Montague.
I was pleased with her, for she had some kind of perfume about
her that I liked to smell. So I went and sat on the hearth rug quite
near her.

They had a little talk about things I did not understand and then the
lady's eyes fell on me. She looked at me through a bit of glass that
was hanging by a chain from her neck, and pulled away her
beautiful dress lest I should touch it.

I did not care any longer for the perfume, and went away and sat
very straight and stiff at Mrs. Morris' feet. The lady's eyes still
followed me.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morris," she said, "but that is a very
queer-looking dog you have there."

"Yes," said Mrs. Morris, quietly; "he is not a handsome dog."