at the speaker, and seemed uncertain whether to plunge into the stream or dash back into the cover of the woods. He stared inquiringly at the smallish, motionless figure seated on the log. He met a pair of greyish brown eyes, kindly but very masterful, very compelling, fixed steadily upon him.
"Come here, Bran! Come here, I tell you!" repeated Stonor, more sharply.
There was something in that voice of authority, so assured, yet so subtly sympathetic, that poured balm upon Bran's sick and desolate spirit. It gave him confidence. It seemed to restore him to his forfeited fellowship with man. He had never heard a voice like that before.
He came slowly towards Stonor, but he came very humbly, his ears drooping, his fine tail between his legs. He expected punishment, but he came gladly.
As he approached, Stonor tossed him a lump of cold meat. With an apologetic glance, Bran bolted it gratefully. Then he crept to the man's knees.
"Lay down, you bloody murderer!" commanded Stonor.
The dog obeyed at once, comforted to feel that he had acquired a master. That master placed a moccasined foot gently on his back, rubbed his broad, intelligent head, and pulled his ears with a decisive roughness. Then, dropping his eyes to
