"Oh, you are in the recess; I could not see you when I came in. I want you to take this note to Mr. Fowler; see him, and wait for an answer." Shall I go now, papa, or after tea?" "After tea will do, if you go as soon as you can." The bell was already ringing for that meal, so they proceeded at once to the dining-room. Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were intimate friends of the family at the Dale, and many pleasant hours were spent by the children at Croft House, the residence of the Fowlers. Croft House was situated on a steep bank, and was reached from the public road by a gravelled walk leading through the garden, and then by two or three flights of stone steps which led up the side of the bank into a wide lobby, out of which a door on the right hand opened into the hall of the house, and a door on the opposite side into an office connected with Mr. Fowler's business. The dining-room was situated at the back of the house; the drawing-room was over one of the offices, and looked on to the garden and stone steps. In a yard at the rear of the house stood a large comfortable-looking dog-kennel. This kennel was occupied by a new and favourite dog called "Jock." I don't know whether I can describe him to you. There was nothing at all attractive in his appearance; he was nearly as large as a Newfoundland dog, but was neither a Newfoundland nor a Retriever. His long legs made it an easy thing for him to rear himself up to the height of a tall man; whilst his dirty, shaggy black and white hair, fierce eyes, and deep growl made him an object of fear to all strangers. Jock was no favourite with the children of the house, though he allowed them sometimes to come near him and pat him; but he never manifested any desire for a romp or a run with them. Mark Melville was unusually timid with dogs, especially with those he did not know well; but no thought of meeting Jock would enter his mind as he took his father's note, for the dog was kept in the yard, and his way did not pass through it. Mark did not know the dog, as he had only lately been brought to Croft House, but he had heard the dog's name mentioned by Mr. Fowler two or three times. When Mark reached Croft House it was almost dark, and only a faint light in the drawing-room threw its feeble rays on the garden paths. He was stepping quickly up the lower flight of steps, when a black and white object on the topmost step caught his eye. He at once knew it must be Jock, in some way freed from his chain, and a cold shiver ran through all his frame. It was useless to turn and run for the street, the dog would in two strides have been upon him; and to try to pass him was equally dangerous. He felt powerless, and could only turn and lean his back against a low wall which wound up on one side of the steps, whilst the dog came on towards him uttering his low, fierce growl. Mark readily remembered his name, and began coaxingly to say, "Jock; good fellow. Poor old Jock." The dog evidently knew he was a stranger, but was puzzled at his calling him by name; he stood quietly examining Mark for a minute or two, and then, rearing himself on his hind legs, put his paws on his shoulder and his nose against his face. As the dog's paws rested on his shoulder, Mark felt sick with fright and ready to faint. He spoke coaxing words to the dog, and once or twice moved his hand to pat his head; but every word and movement was answered only by a deep growl from Jock. Mark's terror grew unspeakable; the cold drops of sweat fell from his brow, and his legs seemed unable to bear him up any longer. He glanced up at the windows and down towards the road, but no deliverer appeared. He shouted "Mr. Fowler" at the top of his voice, but it appeared unlikely he would be heard in the back of the house, where, judging from the faint light in the drawing-room, the family must be sitting. He repeated his cry again and again; but every repetition drew from Jock an increasingly savage growl. Mark felt he must sink beneath the weight of the dog, for Jock kept his paws on his shoulder the whole time, and his growls sounded terribly near to his throat. Some minutes passed in this position of terror, they seemed like hours to Mark,— |