“I knew I’d find you, Lassie—­I knew it all the time;—­even the times when I was deadsure I wouldn’t!  Gee, but you’ve grown, though!  And you’re beautifuler than ever.  Isn’t she, Miss?” he demanded, turning to the Mistress with instinctive knowledge that here at least he would find confirmation.  “Indeed she is!” the Mistress assured him.

“And see how glad she is to be with you again!  She—­”

“And Dad says she can stay with me, for keeps!” exulted Dick.  “He says he’ll put a new lock on the cellar door, so she can’t ever push out again, the way she did, last time.  But I guess she’s had her lesson in going out for walks at night and not being able to find her way back.  She and I are going to have the dandiest times together, that ever happened.  Aren’t we, Lass?  Is that her little boy?” he broke off, in eager curiosity, as the Master appeared from the kennels, carrying Bruce.

The puppy was set down on the veranda floor for Dick’s inspection.

“He’s cunning, isn’t he?  Kind of like a Teddy Bear,—­the sort kids play with.  But,” with a tinge of worry, “I’m not sure Ma will let me keep two.  Maybe—­”

“Perhaps,” suggested the Mistress, “perhaps you’d like us to keep little Bruce, to remember Lass by?  We’ll try to make him very happy.”

“Yes’m!” agreed Dick, in much haste, his brow clearing from a mental vision of Mrs. Hazen’s face when she should see him return with twice as many dogs as he had set out for.  “Yes’m.  If you wouldn’t mind, very much.  S’pose we leave it that way?  I guess Bruce’ll like being with you, Miss.  I—­I guess pretty near anybody would.  You’ll—­you’ll try not to be too homesick for Lass, won’t you?”

On the steps of the veranda the downy and fat puppy watched his mother’s departure with no especial interest.  By the Mistress’s wish, Mr. Hazen had not been required to make any part of his proffered hundred-dollar payment for the return of his boy’s pet.  All the Mistress had stipulated was that Lass might be allowed to remain at The Place until baby Bruce should no longer need her.

“Bruce,” said the Mistress as the car rolled up the drive and out of sight, “you are the sole visible result of The Place’s experiment in raising prize collies.  You have a tremendous responsibility on those fat little shoulders of yours,—­to live up to it all.”

By way of showing his scorn for such trifles as a “tremendous responsibility,” Bruce proceeded to make a ferocious onslaught at the Mistress’s temperamental gray Persian kitten, “Tipperary,” which was picking a mincing way across the veranda.

A howl of pain and two scratches on his tiny nose immediately followed the attack.  Tipperary then went on with her mincing promenade.  And Bruce, with loud lamentations, galloped to the shelter of the Mistress’s skirt.

“Poor little chap!” soothed the Mistress, picking him up and comforting him.  “Responsibility isn’t such a joke, after all, is it, Baby?”