The Saracens despised her, as the potential mother of future dogs.  And they loathed her accordingly.  Back to Europe came the Crusaders, bearing only three lasting memorials of their contact with the Moslems.  One of the three was a sneering contempt for all female dogs.

There is no other pet as loving, as quick of wit, as loyal, as staunchly brave and as companionable as the female collie.  She has all the male’s best traits and none of his worst.  She has more in common, too, with the highest type of woman than has any other animal alive. (This, with all due respect to womanhood.)

Prejudice has robbed countless dog-lovers of the joy of owning such a pal.  In England the female pet dog has at last begun to come into her own.  Here she has not.  The loss is ours.

And so back to Lass.

When would-be purchasers were conducted to the puppy-run at the Rothsay kennels, Lass and her six brethren and sisters were wont to come galloping to the gate to welcome the strangers.  For the pups were only three months old—­an age when every event is thrillingly interesting, and everybody is a friend.  Three times out of five, the buyer’s eye would single Lass from the rollicking and fluffy mass of puppyhood.

She was so pretty, so wistfully appealing, so free from fear (and from bumptiousness as well) and carried herself so daintily, that one’s heart warmed to her.  The visitor would point her out.  The kennel-man would reply, flatteringly—­

“Yes, she sure is one fine pup!”

The purchaser never waited to hear the end of the sentence, before turning to some other puppy.  The pronoun, “she,” had killed forever his dawning fancy for the little beauty.

The four males of the litter were soon sold; for there is a brisk and a steady market for good collie pups.  One of the two other females died.  Lass’s remaining sister began to “shape up” with show-possibilities, and was bought by the owner of another kennel.  Thus, by the time she was five months old, Lass was left alone in the puppy-run.

She mourned her playmates.  It was cold, at night, with no other cuddly little fur-ball to snuggle down to.  It was stupid, with no one to help her work off her five-months spirits in a romp.  And Lass missed the dozens of visitors that of old had come to the run.

The kennel-men felt not the slightest interest in her.  Lass meant nothing to them, except the work of feeding her and of keeping an extra run in order.  She was a liability, a nuisance.

Lass used to watch with pitiful eagerness for the attendants’ duty-visits to the run.  She would gallop joyously up to them, begging for a word or a caress, trying to tempt them into a romp, bringing them peaceofferings in the shape of treasured bones she had buried for her own future use.  But all this gained her nothing.

A careless word at best—­a grunt or a shove at worst were her only rewards.  For the most part, the men with the feed-trough or the water-pail ignored her bounding and wrigglingly eager welcome as completely as though she were a part of the kennel furnishings.  Her short daily “exercise scamper” in the open was her nearest approach to a good time.