“Um . . . yes . . .  I presume likely he thinks he does.  But he’ll feel better about it by and by.  He’ll realize that, same as you say, the moon wasn’t made for a dog.  Just as soon as he comes to that conclusion, he’ll be a whole lot better dog. . . .  Yes, and a happier one, too,” he added, slowly.

Barbara did not speak at once and Jed began to whistle a doleful melody.  Then the former declared, with emphasis:  “I think some dogs are awf’ly nice.”

“Um? . . .  What? . . .  Oh, you do, eh?”

She snuggled close to him on the bench.

“I think you’re awf’ly nice, too, Uncle Jed,” she confided.

Jed looked down at her over his spectacles.

“Sho! . . .  Bow, wow!” he observed.

Babbie burst out laughing.  Ruth turned and came toward them over the dew-sprinkled grass.

“What are you laughing at, dear?” she asked.

“Oh, Uncle Jed was so funny.  He was barking like a dog.”

Ruth smiled.  “Perhaps he feels as if he were our watchdog, Babbie,” she said.  “He guards us as if he were.”

Babbie hugged her back-step-uncle’s coat sleeve.

“He’s a great, big, nice old watchdog,” she declared.  “We love him, don’t we, Mamma?”

Jed turned his head to listen.

“Hum . . .” he drawled.  “That dog up town has stopped his howlin’.  Perhaps he’s beginnin’ to realize what a lucky critter he is.”

As usual, Babbie was ready with a question.

“Why is he lucky, Uncle Jed?” she asked.

“Why?  Oh, well, he . . . he can look at the moon, and that’s enough to make any dog thankful.”