“Wait, Farley, until I look after the baggage.”

“Yonder is O’Brien with his express waggon.  Give him the checks, and he will have the trunks at home almost as soon as we get there.  Michael O’Brien!”

As the ruddy, beaming pleasant countenance of the express man approached, and he received the checks, Mr. Roscoe sprang into the carriage, but Regina summoned courage to speak.

“If you please, I want my dog.”

“Your dog!  Did you leave it in the car?  Is it a poodle?”

“Poodle!  He is a Newfoundland, and the express agent has him.”

“Then O’Brien will bring him with the trunks,” said Mr. Roscoe, preparing to close the door.

“I would not like to leave him behind.”

“You certainly do not expect to carry him in the carriage?” answered the gentleman, staring at her, as if she had been a refugee from some insane asylum.

“Why not?  There seems plenty of room.  I am so much afraid something might happen to him among all these people.  But perhaps you would not like him shut up in the carriage.”

For an instant she seemed sorely embarrassed, then leaning forward, addressed the coachman.

“Would you mind taking my dog up there with you? thank you very much if you will please be so kind.”

Before the wistful pleading of the violet eyes, and the sweet tones of the hesitating voice, the surly expression vanished from Farley’s countenance, and, touching his hat, he replied cheerfully: 

“Aye, miss; if he is not venomous, I will take him along.”

“Thank you.  Mr. Roscoe, if you will be so good as to go with me to the express car, I can get my dog.”

“That is not necessary.  Besides it is snowing hard, and your wraps are not very heavy.  Give me the receipt, and I will bring him out.”

There was some delay, but after a little while Mr. Roscoe came back leading Hero by a chain attached to his collar.  The dog looked sulky and followed reluctantly, but at sight of his mistress, sprang forward, barking joyfully.

“Poor Hero! poor fellow!  Here I am.”

When he had been prevailed upon to jump up beside the driver, and the carriage rolled homeward, Mr. Roscoe said: 

“That is a superb creature.  The only pure white Newfoundland I ever saw.  Where did you get him?”

“He was bought in Brooklyn several years ago, and sent to me.”

“What is his name?”

“Hero.”

“How very odd.  Bruno, or Nero, or Ponto, or even Fido, would be so much more suitable.”

“Hero suits him, and suits me.”

Mr. Roscoe looked curiously into the face beside him, and laughed.

“I presume you are a very romantic young miss, and have been dreaming about some rustic Leander in round jacket.”

“My dog was not called after the priestess at Sestos.  It means hero the common noun, not Hero the proper name.  Holding torches to guide people across the Hellespont was not heroism.”