And the dog, a shaggy little terrier—the gift of some wealthy and devoted friends of Frank’s on Beacon Hill—would pause abruptly in its frisking, turn its head, and look towards its owner with the attentive, puzzled, and wistfully inquiring look that dogs and little children have, as if to say: “What is it, master? Are you pleased with me or have I done something that was wrong?”
And in a moment, in response to Frank’s sharper and more peremptory command, the little dog, with a crestfallen and somewhat apologetic look, would scamper back from its wild gaieties along the green banks of the Charles, to trot meekly along the path behind the two young men, until its exuberant springtime spirits got the best of it again.
From time to time, they would pass other students, in pairs or groups, striding along the pleasant path; and when these young men saw Starwick twirling his stick and speaking to the little dog, they would grin broadly at each other and stare curiously at Starwick as they passed.
Once Starwick paused to call “Heel!” sharply to the little dog at the very moment it had lifted its leg against a tree, and the dog, still holding its leg up, had looked inquiringly around at Starwick with such a wistful look that some students who were passing had burst out in hearty laughter. But Starwick, although the colour of his ruddy face deepened a shade, had paid no more attention to these ruffians than if they had been scum in the gutter. Rather, he snapped his fingers sharply, and cried “Heel!” again, at which the little dog left its tree and came trotting meekly back to its obedient position.
Suddenly, while one of these episodes was being enacted, Eugene heard the bright wholesome tones of a familiar voice, and turning round with a startled movement, found himself looking straight into the broad and beaming countenance of Effie Horton and her husband Ed.
“Well!” Effie was saying in her rich bright voice of Iowa. “Look who’s here! I thought those long legs looked familiar,” she went on in her tone of gay and lightsome, and yet wholesome, banter, “even from a distance! I told Pooly—” this, for an unknown reason, was the affectionate nickname by which Horton was known to his wife and all his friends from Iowa—“I told Pooly that there was only one pair of legs as long as that in Cambridge.’It must be Eugene,’I said.—Yes sir!” she went on brightly, shaking her head with a little bantering movement, her broad and wholesome face shining with good nature all the time. “It is Eugene—and my! my! my!—I just wish you’d look at him,” she went on gaily, in
