"Barnwell might cross him," she answered; and,
moving to the door, summoned her offspring. It
was the sturdy individual who had burst into a wail
at Clare's funeral, his hair still bristling against a
formal application of soap.

"C'mon in, doggy," he called; "c'mon in, Ginral.
I wisht I had a doggy like that," he hung on his
mother's knees lamenting the absence from their
household of a General Jackson. "Our ol' houn'
dog's nothing," he asserted.

Lettice, worn by her visitor's rapid monotone, the
stir and clatter of young shoes, remarked petulantly,
"Gordon paid two hundred dollars for that single
dog; there ought to be something extra to him."

Mrs. Berry received this item without signal
amazement; it was evident that she was prepared to
credit any vagaries to the possessors of Pompey Hollidew's
fabulous legacy.

"Just think of that!" she exclaimed mildly; "I'll
chance that dog gets a piece of liver every day."

Rose, from the door, announced supper. She
was an awkward girl of seventeen, with the pallid
face and blank brown eyes of her father, and diffident
speech. Gordon faced Lettice over her figured
red cloth; on one side Barnwell K. sat flanked by
his mother and Simeon Caley, on the other Rose sat
by an empty chair, the place of the now energetically
employed Mrs. Caley. The great, tin pot of coffee

[[223]]

p222 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p223w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p224

v?