The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

front of my dress all round him. In this way I took the creature, as painlessly as possible, and as fast as possible, back to the house. Finding no one in the hall I went up at once to my own sitting-room, made a bed for the dog with one of my old shawls, and rang the bell. The largest and fattest of all possible housemaids answered it, in a state of cheerful stupidity which would have provoked the patience of a saint. The girl’s fat, shapeless face actually stretched into a broad grin at the sight of the wounded creature on the floor. “What do you see there to laugh at?” I asked, as angrily as if she had been a servant of my own. “Do you know whose dog it is?” “No, miss, that I certainly don’t.” She stooped, and looked down at the spaniel’s injured side⁠—brightened suddenly with the irradiation of a new idea⁠—and pointing to the wound with a chuckle of satisfaction, said, “That’s Baxter’s doings, that is.” I was so exasperated that I could have boxed her ears. “Baxter?” I said. “Who is the brute you call Baxter?” The girl grinned again more cheerfully than ever. “Bless you, miss! Baxter’s the keeper, and when he finds strange dogs hunting about, he takes and shoots ’em. It’s keeper’s dooty, miss. I think that dog will die. Here’s where he’s been shot, ain’t it? That’s Baxter’s doings, that is. Baxter’s doings, miss, and Baxter’s dooty.” I was almost wicked enough to wish that Baxter had shot the housemaid instead of the dog. Seeing that it was quite