He flew to the door and called down the stairs to have the dog set free.  The spaniel rushed into the room and leaped into his master’s outstretched arms.  Winterfield returned his caresses, and kisses him as tenderly as a woman might have kissed her pet.

“Dear old fellow! it’s a shame to have left you—­I won’t do it again.  Father Benwell, have you many friends who would be as glad to see you as this friend?  I haven’t one.  And there are fools who talk of a dog as an inferior being to ourselves! This creature’s faithful love is mine, do what I may.  I might be disgraced in the estimation of every human creature I know, and he would be as true to me as ever.  And look at his physical qualities.  What an ugly thing, for instance—­I won’t say your ear—­I will say, my ear is; crumpled and wrinkled and naked.  Look at the beautiful silky covering of his ear!  What are our senses of smelling and hearing compared to his?  We are proud of our reason.  Could we find our way back, if they shut us up in a basket, and took us to a strange place away from home?  If we both want to run downstairs in a hurry, which of us is securest against breaking his neck—­I on my poor two legs, or he on his four?  Who is the happy mortal who goes to bed without unbuttoning, and gets up again without buttoning?  Here he is, on my lap, knowing I am talking about him, and too fond of me to say to himself, ‘What a fool my master is!’”

Father Benwell listened to this rhapsody—­so characteristic of the childish simplicity of the man—­with an inward sense of impatience, which never once showed itself on the smiling surface of his face.

He had decided not to mention the papers in his pocket until some circumstance occurred which might appear to remind him naturally that he had such things about him.  If he showed any anxiety to produce the envelope, he might expose himself to the suspicion of having some knowledge of the contents.  When would Winterfield notice the side table, and open his letters?

The tick-tick of the clock on the mantel-piece steadily registered the progress of time, and Winterfield’s fantastic attentions were still lavished on his dog.

Even Father Benwell’s patience was sorely tried when the good country gentleman proceeded to mention not only the spaniel’s name, but the occasion which had suggested it.  “We call him Traveler, and I will tell you why.  When he was only a puppy he strayed into the garden at Beaupark, so weary and footsore that we concluded he had come to us from a great distance.  We advertised him, but he was never claimed—­and here he is!  If you don’t object, we will give Traveler a treat to-day.  He shall have dinner with us.”

Perfectly understanding those last words, the dog jumped off his master’s lap, and actually forwarded the views of Father Benwell in less than a minute more.  Scampering round and round the room, as an appropriate expression of happiness, he came into collision with the side table and directed Winterfield’s attention to the letters by scattering them on the floor.