by howls from the next room, at first low and mournful, but as these proved unavailing they gradually turned into the same deafening barks that had before carried his point.
“Oh, you tiresome puppy!” exclaimed Bess, in despair.
Rising, she went to the next room, where, in front of a tall bookcase, lay Fuzz, pawing wildly at the narrow crack that separated it from the floor, in the hope of rolling out his cherished ball. For the twentieth time that day Bess resigned herself to the inevitable, and, kneeling down on the floor, with difficulty she reached under the bookcase, grasped the ball with the tips of her fingers and drew it out, while Fuzz, utterly regardless of her nerves and her Sunday gown, capered back and forth over her, barking madly all the time.
Fuzz was the ruling member of the Carter family. Two years before, Bess, scorning Dominie Sampson, the family collie, had been anxious to own a toy terrier, and her indulgent father had for months been watching for an opportunity to gratify his daughter’s wish, when one day he came triumphantly home, and
