To pass away the time, Beth hunted up Don.  At sight of her, he barked and wagged his tail.  She threw her arms about his neck.  “Yes, Don, I know you’re glad to see me, and I love you with all my heart.  Come on and we’ll have a play.”

But, for some unaccountable reason, he did not seem ready for a frolic.  As soon as she let go of him, he walked back by the stable and lay down.

“Come on, Don,” she called coaxingly.

He did not budge.  She stamped her foot impatiently.

“Oh, everybody’s provoking this morning.  You’re horrid and mean, Don, and I don’t believe I love you, after all.”

He looked up at this.  His gaze seemed a reproach to her, but she grew only the crosser.

“Oh, you needn’t be looking that way at me.  You’re lazy, and you know it.  If you were sorry, you’d play with me.  No, I don’t love you one little bit.”

She walked back to the house, and then sulked until the breakfast gong sounded.

To make up for being somewhat late, Maggie had prepared an extra fine meal.  Mr. and Mrs. Davenport and even Marian proved unusually talkative that morning, and they started their breakfast very happily.  Beth, too, could not withstand the general good humor, and soon her spirits began to rise.  She said, however: 

“Do you know, that horrid old Don would not play with me this morning.  He——­”

At that instant, January came running up on the piazza, where they were eating breakfast.

“Missy Beth,” he cried, “come quick; Don acts mighty queer.  ’Pears like he’s dying.”

Not only Beth, but Mr. and Mrs. Davenport and Marian jumped up from the table and ran out to the barn.

They found the noble dog where Beth had left him.  He was, in truth, in the very throes of death.

Beth fell on her knees beside him, and lifted his head upon her lap.  Tears were streaming from her eyes so that she could hardly see him.

“Don,” she cried, “you know I didn’t mean it.  You know I love you.”

His fast glazing eye brightened momentarily at the sound of her voice.  If he could have spoken, he would have said: 

“Little mistress, I never doubted your love.  I wasn’t lazy.  You know now why I wouldn’t play.”

“Oh, we must do something for him.  It would break my heart if he died,” cried poor Beth.

“I’m skeered it’s too late, but mebbe, if I fotch,” began January.  But Don, with one long, loving look at Beth, gave up his breath with a gasp, stretching out in the rigidity of death.

“It is too late,” said Mr. Davenport huskily.

“No, no, no,” cried Beth; “God wouldn’t be so cruel as to let him die.  Don, look at me.  Dear old doggie, I love you, I love you.”

But Don was beyond range of her call.  Mrs. Davenport and Marian were crying softly, too, and there were tears even in the eyes of Mr. Davenport and January.