He seemed to be perfectly aware that his master was talking to him, but what it was about he evidently did not know, and still more evidently did not care.

He liked to be petted and made much of--and presently curled himself up in a soft silken ball on Helmsley's knee, with his little black nose pointed towards the fire, and his eyes blinking lazily at the sparkle of the flames.

And so Mary found them, when at last she came down from her room to prepare supper.
"Is the headache better, my dear ?" asked Helmsley, as she entered.
"It's quite gone, David!" she answered cheerily--"Mending the lace often tries one's eyes--it was nothing but that." He looked at her intently.
"But you've been crying!" he said, with real concern.
"Oh, David! Women always cry when they feel like it!" "But did _you_ feel like it ?" "Yes.

I often do." "Why ?" She gave a playful gesture with her hands.
"Who can tell! I remember when I was quite a child, I cried when I saw the first primrose of the spring after a long winter.

I knelt down and kissed it, too! That's me all over.