of an animal-shop; and if he were not on conversational terms with every friendly bird and beast therein domiciled, he was either a rogue of vast pretensions or an old fellow devoted overmuch to tomfoolery in his idle moments. little, perhaps, by her delicate loveliness dwelling in the inimical tenement world, he proceeded to deal with her precisely as if she had been of exalted station, practising his tricks all the more willingly, no doubt, because she was not. That is to say, he smiled, he performed a charming bow, he smiled once more, with his head on one side and his eyes twinkling, and he lifted a gravely warning finger to command discretion. "Hush!" he whispered, darkly. "One moment, please!" Thereupon Tom Twitter redoubled his assault upon the contumacious canaries in the little cages. He whistled in all sorts of ways; he pleaded, he argued, he scolded, he asserted, de Except for a slight list to starboard, and a rakish little tilt to the roof, and an air of defiant old-fashion, Mr. Twitter's establishment was outwardly correct in every particular. It was a little old building of white frame, two-storied, with something additional in the way of a high-angled garret. It had wide shop windows below, lifted somewhat above the pavement and flanking a broad, black door with a brass knocker and fluted white columns; and it had a row of green-clared, replied, rejoined, and retorted; shuttered windows above, coming close to the eaves and frankly thrown back, as if the apartment beyond had nothing in the wide world to conceal. Running the width of the shop, over the windows and doors, was the legend: Thomas Twitter. It indicated merely that one Thomas Twitter did business within. Something more was communicated by an obscure little sign over the door: Twitter Academy. But concerning the sort and worth of the learning imparted within no information was betrayed; the toothsome little mystery remained discreet and inviting: Twitter Academy-and not another word. Tom Twitter's astonishing argument with the canaries, which he had now pertinaciously renewed, was interrupted by the shy arrival of a customer from the windy night. The door opened; a blast of snowy wind leaped in, but a soft closing of the door shut out the eager, frosty crowd of gusts behind. And there stood the Little Girl-a dear, dark little creature of an elderly gravity, with a shawl over her head and a lively bundle, snugly wrapped in a corner, held close and anxiously in her warm arms. She was not such a patron as Tom Twitter was used to receiving; there was no equipage outside there was no maid, there was no footman. The Little Girl was lowly and alone. Tom Twitter turned, without for an instant remitting his contention with the birds; and having discovered the Little Girl's shy waiting, and having divined her errand, and having been saddened a he warned and expostulated, all with many oratorical tricks of hands and countenance; and he concluded at last with a rapid peroration of trills and chirps by which any but the most obstinately opinionated canaries known to the ornithologists must surely have been convinced of their error. And by this time, as Tom Twitter had foreseen and intended, the Little Girl was so absorbed in the singular affair-so delighted with Tom Twitter's behavior, which was more like a story than anything she had hitherto encountered-and altogether so charmed with Tom Twitter's politeness-that her shyness had vanished and she seemed to have known Tom Twitter all the days of her life. "Were you talking to them?" she demanded, her dark eyes wide with wonder. "I sha'n't commit myself," said Tom Twitter, flatly. "I almost believe—” "Not a word!" cried Tom Twitter. The Little Girl gravely regarded him. "I believe you were," she declared, making up her mind. "I really do." It was a delicious adventure. "Very well," said Tom Twitter; "you may think what you like. I'm not responsible.” "You were!" the Little Girl exulted. "Don't expect me to deny it." "Well!" the Little Girl gasped. "I never heard of such a thing. I shouldn't have believed it if I hadn't caught you at it. I did catch you, didn't I?" "Observe that I say nothing," Tom Twitter protested, as if thoroughly warned that whatever he might say would be used against him. "Not a word, mind you! And now," he rattled on, in guilty haste to divert the Little Girl's attention, his eye sharply on the struggling bundle in her arms, his forefinger pointing, "how much d'ye want for that dog?" The Little Girl jumped. She stared horrified at Tom Twitter; and she retreated a step, her dark eyes widening still, and she gripped the bundle with such tight affection that it emitted a small yelp of complaint. And had Tom Twitter not at that very instant luckily burst into a tintinnabulant peal of laughter she would have bolted and vanished for good and all. "So?" said Tom Twitter, softly. "Yes, indeed," the motherly little creature sighed; "he's-been ailing for quite a while." "And you fancied," Tom Twitter demanded, "that the Twitter Academy for the Higher Education of Canines was a hospital?" "Isn't it?" the Little Girl plainted. "It is!" Tom Twitter admitted at once. At any rate," he qualified, with a pompous little lift of the chin, “in common with all other modernly equipped and conscientiously conducted establishments for the care and education of the young "Not for sale, eh?" Tom Twitter the Twitter Academy for the Higher Eduroared. "Ha, ha, ha!" Tom Twitter was twinkling in such a reassuring and contagious fashion-and he looked so very much like a pert robin -and the whole affair was so obviously nothing but the most delectable tomfoolery that the Little Girl could not help smiling as she shook her head. "Why not?" Tom Twitter wanted to know. "Why-why-" the Little Girl faltered, amused with Tom Twitter's stupidity, "why, because, of course!" "No answer!" Tom Twitter complained. "Because I love him!" "I'll bet you wouldn't take twenty-five dollars for that dog," said Tom Twitter, with his head sagely on one side. The Little Girl opened her eyes. "You wouldn't give me twenty-five dollars for him, would you?" she inquired, anxiously. "Not I!" "Are you quite sure?" 66 Quite sure? Ha, ha! Well, rather!" "I'm very glad," said the Little Girl, vastly relieved. "Because," she explained, "if you offered me twenty-five dollars for my dog I should simply have to sell him." cation of Canines has a perfectly appointed infirmary in connection and a competent physician in constant attendance. Myself being," he added, in a very sweet way, "the competent physician." And he bowed most politely. "Do I do?" The Little Girl shrewdly looked him over. "Yes," said she, positively. "Name of the dog?" Tom Twitter inquired, delighted. "Alexander." Age of the dog?" "He's really quite a baby." "How did you come by the dog?" "I found him," the Little Girl replied. "That is," she corrected, being a precise little thing, "he found me. It's really the same thing, I suppose." Tom Twitter delicately withdrew a corner of the shawl and discovered a plebeian and woebegone countenance. He said, “Hum!” in a non-committal way. Then he frowned and pursed his lips. This was ominous. “Do you love the dog?" he asked. The Little Girl sighed. "I perceive," said Tom Twitter, coldly, "that you do not." "I do!" declared the indignant Little tle old establishment for the education was the usually joyous establishment uneasy and distraught when the physical examination of Alexander was undertaken. The Little Girl was downcast, so was Tom Twitter, and so-to a pitiful degree was the wretched Alexander. Alexander was a sick dog; the sight of him-and his courageous effort to preserve a decent appearance of jollity fairly anguished the beholder. Stretched out on the counter, flat on his back, with his limp little legs in the air and his weary head lolling -stripped bare, as it were, for a rigorous investigation of his trouble-Alexander disclosed, aside from welldefined symptoms portion; and one ear was as alertly cocked and as inquiring and as defiant as a bullterrier's, and the other was as loose and as obsequious as a hound's; and there was a perfectly round, very pronounced, very, very black fox-terrier-like spot en TOM TWITTER PROMISED THAT ALEXANDER WOULD PULL THROUGH of invalidism, nothing whatsoever to in- circling one rheumy eye, as if asserting vite the affections. He was a long, gawky Alexander's pretensions to legitimate delittle youngster, white of color, but with a scent. The Little Girl explained, in surprising suggestion of black spots mys- affectionate apology, that although Alexteriously distributed over his lank per- ander, generally speaking, was a foxson, as though the color, honestly enough terrier, he had been accused of being come by, no doubt, had declined to emerge "part coach." And with this Tom Twitbeyond the skin in betrayal of Alexander's ter could very well agree. In view of the mixed ancestry; and he had a long, obvious facts, he conceived the accusation crooked tail, with a broken tip which innocuous. flapped helplessly about in rather drear response to the excitement of its major VOL. CXXVI.-No. 751.-11 In the portentous way of a family physician of the old school, which Tom Twitter had cultivated with shrewd and jovial assiduity for employment in the delight of his patrons, Tom Twitter now regarded the naked Alexander, beginning the difficult business of diagnosis. He put on his spectacles, he sighed, he pursed his lips, he frowned mightily, he ejaculated "Hum!" in a fashion at once hopeful and discouraging, but altogether sig nificant of abounding wisdom. And then, great gold watch in hand, his face all screwed with profundity, he deliberately counted Alexander's pulse; whereupon he said "Hum!" again, with a little lift of triumph, as if he were already on the track of the trouble. Next he sounded Alexander's lungs, tap-tap-tapping all over the astounded little patient's chest in the most scientific way; whereupon he said "Hum!" once more, this time with a smack of satisfaction, as if nothing in the world could elude his professional acumen when his interest was really awakened. Finally he listened to Alexander's heart-beat, and lifted Alexander's eyelids, and poked about Alexander's shrinking abdomen, and took a per functory look at Alexander's tongue; whereupon he snorted "Hum!" for the last time, his face all wreathed in smiles, his eyes gleaming, his brows victoriously lifted, as if he had not only run the trouble to earth, but had discovered himself the master of it. "fortunately you have taken Alexander's trouble in time; and fortunately, too, if I may be permitted to say so though I have no wish to be guilty of professional discourtesy-fortunately, too, I may add, you have brought Alexander to the right shop. Alexander shall have every care and attention. My skill, such as it is, is completely at his service. Alexander is young; he seems to have inherited a robust constitution, and so far as appearsmy examination was not, however, as exhaustive as it might have been-so far as appears, I say, he has not dissipated his natural endowment of good health. And that's the thing that counts." All this was bewildering to the Little Girl; but Tom Twitter's pomposity was so convincing that she nodded her head as if she understood every word. "In short," Tom Twitter heartily promised," Alexander will pull through. Come, now!" he demanded, "have you the courage to leave him with me?" "If it doesn't cost too-" "Cost!" cried Tom Twitter. "My dear child, you shame the profession! Never -never again so long as you live-speak of the fee to a physician in the early stages of his professional activity. Come, now, will you part with Alexander?" "Oh yes," replied the Little Girl. "Thank you." "Very well," "Well?" the Little Girl grimly de- "That's settled. manded, prepared for the worst. compartment in Tom Twitter deliberated for a moment, his face fallen profound; and then all at once he looked at the Little Girl over his spectacles. "Is it serious?" asked the Little Girl. "Hush!" Tom Twitter whispered, with a jerk toward the limp Alexander. "Not so loud. You might alarm him." But is it serious?" "A hospital case, I fear." The Little Girl caught her breath in alarm. "Oh!" she breathed. "Will he-" "Tut, tut!" Tom Twitter interrupted, hurriedly. "Don't speak the word. Bosh! Serious? Yes, of course! My dear, everything is serious. A little neglect may make a mortal wound of a pinprick. There's nothing more alarming in the world than a symptom. But "-he pursed his lips and impressively paused said Tom Twitter. Alexander shall have a the Junior Dormitory for the night. This way, if you please. The sooner he's stowed away the better." And with that, having taken Alexander in his arms, and put a collar and chain in his own pocket, Tom Twitter led the way to a little back stair. the Following close and timidly on nimble heels of Tom Twitter, the Little Girl presently found herself in a dim apartment overlooking the street. A point of gas-light, nothing more-except a radiance of wintry moonlight falling at intervals through the windows. There was a little stirring in the shadows as Tom Twitter tiptoed within-heavy breathing. a whimper, a mournful bark. The Little Girl started. Tom Twitter whispered. "Hush!" They waited for quiet, the Little Girl meanwhile staring about. And here, indeed, was a singular place! A |