“It’s a bear!” little Hugh had whispered, shaking, and Brock, brave but not too certain, had looked at her, inquiring.

“No, love, it’s not a bear; it’s an old log of wood.  Go and put your hand on it, Hughie.”

Little Hugh had cried out and shrunk back.  “I’m afraid!” cried little Hugh.

And Brock, not entirely clear as to the no-bear theory, had yet bluffed manfully.  “Come on, Hughie; let’s go and bang ’um,” said Brock.

Which invitation Hugh accepted reluctantly with a condition, “If you’ll hold my hand, B’ocky.”

The woman turned her head to see the place where the black log had lain, there in the old high bushes.  And behold!  Two strong little figures in white marched along—­she could all but see them today—­and the bigger little figure was dragging the other a bit, holding a hand with masterful grip.  She could hear little Hugh’s laughter as they arrived at the terrible log and found it truly a log.  Even now Hugh’s laugh was music.

“Why, it’s nuffin but an old log o’ wood!” little Hugh had squealed, as brave as a lion.

As she sat seeing visions, old Mavourneen, Brock’s Irish wolf-hound, came and laid her muzzle on the woman’s shoulder, crying a bit, as was Mavourneen’s Irish way, for pleasure at finding the mistress.  And with that there was a brown ripple and a patter of many soft feet, and a broken wave of dogs came around the corner, seven little cairn-terriers.  Sticky and Sandy and their offspring.  The woman let Sticky settle in her lap and drew Sandy under her arm, and the puppies looked up at her from the step below with ten serious, anxious eyes and then fell to chasing quite imaginary game up and down the stone steps.  Mavourneen sighed deeply and dropped with a heavy thud, a great paw on the edge of the white dress and her beautiful head resting on her paws, the topaz, watchful eyes gazing over the city.  The woman put her free hand back and touched the rough head.

“Dear dog!” she spoke.

Another memory came:  how they had bought Mavourneen, she and Hugh and the boys, at the kennels in Ireland, eight years ago; how the huge baby had been sent to them at Liverpool in a hamper; the uproarious drive the four of them—­Hugh, the two boys, and herself—­and Mavourneen had taken in a taxi across the city.  The puppy, astonished and investigating throughout the whole proceeding, had mounted all of them, separately and together, and insisted on lying in big Hugh’s lap, crying broken-heartedly at not being allowed.  How they had shouted laughter, the four and the boy taxi-driver, all the journey, till they ached!  What good times they had always had together, the young father and mother and the two big sons!  She reflected how she had not been at all the conventional mother of sons.  She had not been satisfied to be gentle and benevolent and look after their clothes and morals.  She had lived their lives with them, she had ridden and gone swimming with them, and played tennis and golf, and fished and shot and skated and walked with them, yes, and studied and read with them, all their lives.