day he didn't take a bite out of me, he liked me so much. He used to go without his regular meals, he had such a preference for my calves. I've got marks on me to this day."
"And just to think, it was twenty-six years ago," sighed Moody. "'Ow times 'ave changed."
"Not as much as you'd think," said Julia, a worried look in her eyes. "My mistress is talking of getting another dog,—after all these years. She swore she'd never have another one to take 'is place."
"Thank 'eavings," said Moody devoutly, "I am in another situation." He winked and chuckled loudly.
"As 'andsome a pair as you'll see in a twelve-month," said McFaddan. "He is a—"
"Ahem!" coughed the butler. "There is some one on the stairs, Julia."
Silently, swiftly, the group dissolved. Cricklewick took his place in the foyer, Julia clattered down the stairs to the barred gate. Moody went into the big drawing-room where sat the Marchioness, resplendent,—the Marchioness, who, twenty-six years before, had owned a pet that came to a sad and inglorious end on a happy wedding-day, and she alone of a large and imposing household had been the solitary mourner. She was the Marchioness of Camelford in those days.
The nobility of New York,—or such of it as existed for the purpose of dignifying the salon,—was congregating on the eve of the marriage of Lady Jane Thorne and Lord Temple. Three o'clock the next afternoon was the hour set for the wedding, the place a modest little church, somewhat despised by its lordlier companions because it happened to be off in a somewhat
