“I have never found that it made my children more rough to play with their pets,” said Mrs. Morris.

“No, I should think not,” said the lady, languidly.  “Your boys are the most gentlemanly lads in Fairport, and as for Laura, she is a perfect little lady.  I like so much to have them come and see Charlie.  They wake him up, and yet don’t make him naughty.”

“They enjoyed their last visit very much,” said Mrs. Morris.  “By the way, I have heard them talking about getting Charlie a dog.”

“Oh!” cried the lady, with a little shudder, “beg them not to.  I cannot sanction that.  I hate dogs.”

“Why do you hate them?” asked Mrs. Morris, gently.

“They are such dirty things; they always smell and have vermin on them.”

“A dog,” said Mrs. Morris, “is something like a child.  If you want it clean and pleasant, you have got to keep it so.  This dog’s skin is as clean as yours or mine.  Hold still, Joe,” and she brushed the hair on my back the wrong way, and showed Mrs. Montague how pink and free from dust my skin was.

Mrs. Montague looked at me more kindly, and even held out the tips of her fingers to me.  I did not lick them.  I only smelled them, and she drew her hand back again.

“You have never been brought in contact with the lower creation as I have,” said Mrs. Morris; “just let me tell you, in a few words, what a help dumb animals have been to me in the up-bringing of my children—­my boys, especially.  When I was a young married woman, going about the slums of New York with my husband, I used to come home and look at my two babies as they lay in their little cots, and say to him, ’What are we going to do to keep these children from selfishness—­the curse of the world?’

“‘Get them to do something for somebody outside themselves,’ he always said.  And I have tried to act on that principle.  Laura is naturally unselfish.  With her tiny, baby fingers, she would take food from her own mouth and put it into Jack’s, if we did not watch her.  I have never had any trouble with her.  But the boys were born selfish, tiresomely, disgustingly selfish.  They were good boys in many ways.  As they grew older, they were respectful, obedient, they were not untidy, and not particularly rough, but their one thought was for themselves—­each one for himself, and they used to quarrel with each other in regard to their rights.  While we were in New York, we had only a small, back yard.  When we came here, I said, ‘I am going to try an experiment.’  We got this house because it had a large garden, and a stable that would do for the boys to play in.  Then I got them together, and had a little serious talk.  I said I was not pleased with the way in which they were living.  They did nothing for any one but themselves from morning to night.  If I asked them to do an errand for me, it was done unwillingly.  Of course, I knew they had their school for a part of the day, but they had a good