Hilda shook her head, and was about to reply earnestly; but at this moment Bubble came bounding back with something in his arms,—­something covered with an old shawl; something alive, which did not like the shawl, and which struggled, and made plaintive little noises, which the boy tried vainly to repress.

[Illustration:  “‘SAY, MISS HILDY,—­DO YOU LIKE PURPS?’”]

“Say, Miss Hildy,” he cried, eagerly, “do ye like—­be still, ye critter; hesh, I tell ye!—­do you like purps?”

“‘Purps,’ Bubble?” repeated Hilda, wonderingly.  “What are they?  And what have you there,—­your poor old cat?  Let her go!  For shame, you naughty boy!”

“Puppies, he means,” whispered Pink.

“’Cause if ye do,” cried the breathless Bubble, still struggling with his shrouded captive, “I’ve got one here as—­Wal, thar! go ’long, ye pesky critter, if ye will!” for the poor puppy had made one frantic effort, and leaped from his arms to the ground, where it rolled over and over, a red and green plaid mass, with a white tail sticking out of one end.  On being unrolled, it proved to be a little snow-white, curly creature, with long ears and large, liquid eyes, whose pathetic glance went straight to Hilda’s heart.

“Oh, the little darling!” she cried, taking him up in her arms; “the pretty, pretty creature!  Is he really for me, Bubble?  Thank you very much.  I shall love him dearly, I know.”

“I’m glad ye like him,” said Bubble, looking highly gratified.  “Hosy Grout giv him an’ another one to me yes’day, over ’t the village.  He was goin’ to drownd ’em, an’ I wouldn’ let him, an’ he said I might hev ’em ef I wanted ’em.  I knew Pink would like to hev one, an’ I thought mebbe you liked critters, an’ so—­”

“Good Bubble!” said Hilda, stroking the little dog’s curly head.  “And what shall I call him, Pink?  Let us each think of a name, and then choose the best.”

There was a pause, and then Bubble said, “Call him Scott, after the bold Buckle-oh!”

“Or Will, for ‘the wily Belted Will,’” said Pink, who was as inveterate a ballad-lover as her brother.

“I think Jock is a good name,” said Hildegarde,—­“Jock o’ Hazeldean, you know.  I think I will call him Jock.”  The others assented, and the puppy was solemnly informed of the fact, and received a chicken-bone in honor of the occasion.  Then the three friends ate their dinner, and very merry they were over it.  Hildegarde crowned Pink with the pine-tassel wreath, and declared that she looked like a priestess of Diana.

“No, she don’t,” said Bubble, looking up from his cold chicken; “she looks like Lars Porsena of Clusium sot in his ivory cheer, on’y she ain’t f’erce enough.  Hold up yer head, Pinky, an’ look real savage, an’ I’ll do Horatius at the Bridge.”

Pink did her best to look savage, and Zerubbabel stood up and delivered “Horatius” with much energy and appropriate action, to the great amusement of his audience.  A stout stick, cut from a neighboring thicket, served for the “good Roman steel;” and with this he cut and slashed and stabbed with furious energy, reciting the lines meanwhile with breathless ferocity.  He slew the “great Lord of Luna,” and on the imaginary body he—­