languish for weeks in that horrible fourriere for lost dogs whose managers hang their wretched captives by fifties every Tuesday, and liberally supply the demands of all the physiologists who take the trouble to send to them for “subjects.”  Knowing these things, and perceiving that my concierge was absorbed in discussing scandal on the opposite side of the street, I took advantage of her absence from her post to slip down to the rez-de-chaussee, pounce on the unfortunate dog, whom I found seated hopelessly at the entrance, and smuggle him upstairs into my rooms.  There I deposited him on the floor, patted him encouragingly, and gave him water and a couple of sweet biscuits.  But he was abjectly miserable, and though he drank a little, would eat nothing.  After taking two or three turns round the apartment and sniffing suspiciously at the legs of the chairs and wainscot of the walls, he returned to me where I stood with my back to the window watching him, looked up in my face, wagged his tail feebly, and whined.  I stooped again to caress him, and, so doing, observed that he had, tied round his neck, and half-hidden in his rough brown hair, a ribbon of silver tinsel, uncommon both in material and design.  I felt assured that the dog’s owner must be a woman, and hastily removed the ribbon, expecting to find embroidered upon it some such name as “Amelie” or “Leontine.”  But my examination proved futile, the silver ribbon afforded me no clue to the antecedents of my canine waif.  And indeed, as I stood contemplating him in some perplexity, the conviction forced itself on my mind that he was not exactly the kind of animal that Amelie or Leontine would be likely to select for a pet.  He was a poodle certainly, but of an ill-bred and uncouth description, and instead of being shaved to his centre, and wearing frills round his paws, his coat had been suffered to grow in its natural manner,—­ an indication either of neglect or of want of taste impossible in a feminine proprietor.  But his fact was the most puzzling and at the same time the most fascinating thing about him.  It bore a more human expression than I had ever before seen upon a dog’s countenance, an expression of singular appeal and childishness, so comic withal in its contrast with the rough hair, round eyes, and long nose of the creature, that as I watched him an involuntary laugh escaped me.  “Certainly,” I said to him, “you are a droll dog.  One might do a good deal with you in a traveling caravan!” As the evening wore on he became more tranquil.  Perhaps he began to have confidence in me and to believe that I should restore him to his owner.  At any rate, before we retired to rest he prevailed on himself to eat some supper which I prepared for him, pausing every now and then in his meal to lift his infantile face to mine and wag his tail in a half-hearted manner, as though he said, “You see I am doing my best to trust you, though you are a medical student!”