affable dog in the world, but afflicted with a singularly morbid devotion to duty.  If sent to capture a predatory youth he never failed to secure the marauder, and always did it as if he loved him.  His formidable teeth were not called into service; he either knocked the youngster down and held him with soft but irresistible paws, or he gambolled with him, jumped on him, frisked over him, made escape impossible, and all the time seemed to imply:  ’I have a duty to perform, but you can’t blame me, you know.  There’s no reason in the world why we shouldn’t be the best of friends.’  And they were the best of friends in due course, for Maori bore no malice; there came a time when youngsters invaded Jock’s garden for the pleasure of being captured by his wonderful dog.

Ere Dick had been in his prison ten minutes Chris came to him with tea and cake and scones, and when he had finished these she showered cherries in upon him.  This time she whispered through the grating: 

‘You haven’t got a cold, have you, Dick?’

‘No, miss; I never have colds.’

’Oh, dear, that’s a pity!  I thought if you could catch a cold I might be able to get you out.’

‘Oh!’ Dick thought for a moment, and then coughed slightly.

‘It will have to be a very bad cold, I think.’

Dick’s cough became violent at once, and when Chris led Summers into the vicinity of the dairy a few minutes later the cold had developed alarmingly.  Summers heard, and a quizzical and suspicious eye followed Christina.

‘He—­he doesn’t appear to be a very strong boy, Mr. Summers,’ said the young woman with obvious artfulness.

‘Strong as a bullock,’ said Summers.

’He looked very pale, I thought, and that place is damp—­damp and dangerous.’

Summers dangled the keys.

‘Let the rascal go,’ he said.  ‘Justice will never be done wi’in range o’ those bright eyes.  Let the young villain loose.’

Chris liberated the boy, and filled his pockets with fruit before sending him away.

‘My word, you are a brick,’ murmured Dick, quite overcome, and then Chris, being hidden from the house by the shrubbery, did an astounding thing; she put her arm about the boy’s neck and kissed him, and Dick’s face flamed red, and a delicious confusion possessed him.  If he were her worshipper before he was her slave now—­her unquestioning, faithful slave.

‘You know,’ she said, ’I must be your friend, because if it had not been for you my father might have died out there.’

Dick had recalled the incident several times lately, but always, it must be regretfully admitted, with a pang of angry compunction.  There were occasions when he felt that it would have been wise to have left the superintendent to his fate.  He wondered now, casually, why the daughter should entertain sentiments of gratitude that never seemed to find a place in the arid bosom of her sire.