"I had a terrier, a _lovely_ one, and she had six puppies, and, would you believe it! he drowned every one of them--said they were ill-bred, or something.

And they weren't, they _couldn't_ have been; they were perfectly beautiful, and my darling Scrub fretted herself nearly to death after them.

I begged almost on my knees that he would leave her _one_, and he wouldn't." Her eyes are now full of tears.

"He is a beast!" says she.

This last word seems almost comic, coming from her pretty childish lips.
"Well, but you see," says Rylton, "some men pride themselves on the pedigree of their dogs, and perhaps your uncle----" "Oh, if you are going to defend him!" says she, rising with a stiff little air.
"I'm not--I'm not, indeed," says Rylton.