Nights I would wake up and think of him--out in the cold--homesick--maybe hungry--not understanding--watching and waiting--wondering why I didn't come.

I couldn't keep from thinking about things that tortured me.

This man was a deacon in my father's church.

From the way he prayed, I knew he was not one to be good to dogs.
"And then one afternoon I heard the little familiar scratch at the door.
I rushed to it, and there he was--shivering--but oh so, so glad! He sprang right into my arms--we cried and cried together--sitting there on the floor.

His heart had been almost broken--he had grieved--_suffered_.
He wasn't willing to leave my arms; just whimpering the way one does when a dreadful thing is over--licking my face--you know how they do--you know how dear they are.
"Now I will tell you what I did.