Here’s hard times, and do they get work? No. They go on the dole, and I swear some of ’em will be quite content to let their own children go hungry as long as the dog gets fed.”

Joe’s father shifted his feet uneasily, but the boy interrupted quickly.

“But truly, Mother, she does look thin. I’ll bet you anything they’re not feeding her right.”

“Well,” she answered pertly, “at that I wouldn’t put it past Mister Know-It-All Hynes to steal best part of the dog meat for himself. For I never saw a skinnier-looking, meaner-faced man in all my life.”

During this flow of words her eyes had turned to the dog. And suddenly her tone changed.

“By gum,” she said. “She does look a bit poorly. Poor thing, I’d better fix her a little summat. She can do with it, or I don’t know dogs.”

Then Mrs. Carraclough seemed to realize that her sympathies were directly opposed to the words she had been speaking five minutes before. As if to defend herself and excuse herself, she lifted her voice:

“But the minute she’s fed, back she goes,” she scolded. “And when she’s gone, never another tyke will I have in my house. All ye do is bring ’em up and work over ’em—and they’re as much trouble as raisin’ a child. And after all your work’s done, what do you get for it?”

Thus, chattering angrily, Mrs. Carraclough warmed a pan of food. She set it before the dog, and she and her son stood watching Lassie eat happily. But the man never once turned his eyes toward the dog that had been his.

When Lassie had finished eating, Mrs. Carraclough picked up the plate. Joe went to the mantlepiece and took down a folded piece of cloth and a brush. He sat on the hearth rug and began prettying the dog’s coat.

At first, the man kept his eyes on the fire. Then, despite his efforts, he began to turn quick glances toward the boy and the dog beside him. At last, as if he could stand it no longer, he turned and held out his hand.

“That’s no way to do it, lad,” he said, with his rough voice full of warmth. “If ye’re off to do a job, ye might as well learn to do it right. Sitha—like this!”

He took the brush and cloth from his son and, kneeling on the rug, began working expertly on the dog’s coat, rubbing the rich, deep coat with the cloth, cradling the aristocratic muzzle carefully in one hand, while with the other he worked over the snow white of the collie’s ruff and artistically fluffed out the “leggings” and the “apron” and the “petticoats.”

So for a spell, there was quiet happiness in the cottage. The man lost all other thoughts as he gave his mind over to the work. Joe sat on the rug beside him, watching each turn of the brush and remembering it, for he knew, as in fact every man in the village knew—that there was not a man for miles around who could fix up a collie either for workday or for show bench as Sam Carraclough, his father, could. And his greatest dream and ambition was to be, some day, as fine a dog-man as his father was.

It was Mrs. Carraclough who seemed to remember first what they had all driven from their minds, that Lassie no longer belonged to them.

“Now please,” she cried, in exasperation. “Will you get that tyke out of here?”

Joe’s father turned in sudden anger. His voice was thick with the Yorkshire accent that deepened the speech of all the men of the village.

“Ye wouldn’t have me takking her back lewking like a mucky Monday wash, would’ta?”

“Look, Sam, please,” the woman began. “If ye don’t hurry her back…”

She paused, and they all listened.