addiction to drink more dramatically than the opening chapters of Alice-forShort and It Never Could Happen Again. In When Ghost Meets Ghost also the public-house plays a mischievous part in the criminal activities of the returned Botany Bay convict. In fact no reader of these novels can escape a vivid impression of the close association of the drinking habit with the worst terrors of the abyss of poverty.

In his attitude to organized Christianity De Morgan displays a strong animus against all shams and merely traditional prejudices. The successful novelist in It Never Can Happen Again is a confessed agnostic, and he freely employs the weapon of raillery against the unreasoning and traditional religiosity of his wife and motherin-law who "neither of them knew anything of theology or divinity or exegesis, except that the Bible was the Word of God, and contained everything necessary to Salvation as well as to the fostering of all our little particular prejudices." But for selfdenying and sincere professors of Christianity such as the two clergymen in the same book he has nothing but the highest respect.

One of the main charms of De Morgan's style is his eccentric habit of incorporating is his narrative little scraps of vernacular conversation in oratio obliqua. These scraps crop up unexpectedly like bits of granite on a moorland, and carry on the narrative in the language of one of the humbler characters of the book-the slum child, the charwoman, or the cabman. The result is at first reading a trifle The London Quarterly Review.

disconcerting; but the reader soon comes to look for these breaks in the narrative with a peculiar appetite for their whimsical humor.

In

A word must be added about the length of the novels. William De Morgan is as unconscionably long in reaching the climax of his story as the Merry Monarch was in the act of dying. In one of his books a novelist tells his neighbor at a dinner party that the average novel contains 100,000 words. These were certainly not the limits observed by De Morgan. deed a story is told-probably of the ben trovato class-that once De Morgan was discovered by a friend busily scoring his manuscript with a blue pencil. Asked what he was doing he replied, "Just cutting out a hundred thousand words from my new novel to oblige my publisher!" He loved to turn aside from his story to comment with leisurely humor upon the ways of things, and frequently these prolix philosophizings are the most precious thing in the book. He preferreed to develop his theme without hurry and to leave little or nothing to the imagination. Hence he is anathema to those headlong folk who demand that in an age of motor-cars and aeroplanes a story shall press along heedless of speed limits. It is not likely that William De Morgan's vogue will survive his death by many years; but in these days of strife and passion not a few will turn for mental refreshment to the homely humor and Victorian sentimentality of these stories of a day when men hung the trumpet in the hall and studied war no more.

Nance was a tomboy, or whatever may be the equivalent of this type in the doggy world, and she looked it.

Arthur Page Grubb.

An ungainly body, clad in a rough coat of silver and gray on a foundation of brown, carried a head that ap

peared ill-shaped because of the unusual width of skull. Over her forehead continually straggled a tangle of hairs that mixed with others growing stiffly above her snout, and through this cover were to be seen two pearly eyes that were wondrously bright and intelligent. She had a trick, too, of tossing her head in a manner suggestive of nothing so much as a girl throwing back the curls from face and shoulders, and it seemed to emphasize the tomboy in Nance. But she had sterling qualities, of which her broad skull and quick eyes gave more than a hint. If ungainly, her little body was untiring and as supple as a whip-lash, and her legs were as finely tempered steel springs. She had, too, a rare turn of speed, and it was the combination of these gifts with her remarkable intelligence that in later days made her the most noted dog in Craven.

Her puppyhood was unpromising. Indeed, for one born on a farm, where is lack neither of shelter nor food, her earliest hours were doubly perilous, for, in addition to the prospect of a watery grave in a bucket, her existence, and that of the whole litter, was threatened by negligent nursing. Fate had given the little family a mother not only herself young, but of all dogs that ever worked on a farm the most irresponsible. It was quite in keeping with her reputation that Lucy should bring her children to birth in the exposed hollow trunk of a tree and then forget the blind, sprawling, whimpering puppies for hours together. It was going hard with the weaklings when fate again took a hand in their welfare, this time in the person of young Zub.

It had become evident to the farm folk, to whom matters of birth and reproduction are commonplaces of daily life, that Lucy's new duties had come upon her, and it was plainly

evident, too, before the third day had run, that she was neglecting them. It was then that young Zub, or Zubdil, as he was indifferently called, either name serving to distinguish him from Owd Zub, his father, actively bestirred himself. Hitherto he had done no more than keep his eyes and ears open as he moved about the farm buildings, but neither soft whimper nor the sound of tender noses nuzzling against a warm body had rewarded him. His first deliberate efforts were to watch Lucy's comings and goings, in the hope of tracing her hidingplace. But the mother dog, a poacher at heart and with all a four-footed poacher's cunning, had easily beaten him at this game. When he recognized this, angry at the thought that somewhere a small family was suffering, he soundly cuffed her about the ears in the hope that she would bolt for her hiding-place and her blind charges. But the graceless one, howling, raced no farther than to her kennel, and from its depths kept one watchful eye open for further develop

ments.

"Drat thee," cried Zubdil, as his experiment went wrong, "but I'll find 'em yet." He turned and slowly entered the kitchen, where Owd Zub was quietly chuckling to himself.

"Shoo's bested thee, reight an' all, this time," he said. "Doesn't thy books tell thee owt?"

It was a thrust he was fond of making. Zubdil's strongly developed taste for reading was something beyond the old farmer's understanding. He would have given but occasional heed to it had not the younger man taken up works on scientific farming and breeding, and also studied these subjects in a course of postal lessons with the Agricultural Department at the Northern University. New ideas thus acquired often clashed with the father's ingrained conservative meth

ods, and they left him sore. A chance to get in a sly dig at this "book larning" was too good to be missed. He chuckled again as he asked the question.

The younger man laughed. He was broadening in more ways than one, and he bore no malice. "Happen they do," he said. "Yo just watch, fayther, an' happen yo'll leearn summat."

He reached up to the blackened oak beam that spanned the ceiling, took down his gun, and strolled casually out across the yard. In a moment Lucy had tumultuously burst out of the kennel and was dancing about him, all animation and keenness. Graceless she might be, and lacking in the discharge of her mothering duties, but heart and soul she was a lover of sport. At the sight of the gun she was in transports. Unheeding her, young Zub passed on through the gate. Wriggling through ere it closed, Lucy was after him and away in front of him like a streak, making river-wards. There, as well she knew, were the plumpest rabbits. When the old dalesman, his curiosity whetted, reached a point where he could see without being seen, the two were ranging the low field where runs the Wharfe. Steadily they passed along through Dub End and into Lang Pasture, the gun still hooked in the curl of the man's arm, then as they came through the field gate together into the High Garth Lucy's tail suddenly drooped. She hesitated, turned about in indecision, and finally, disregarding the sharp whistle calling her to heel, slid off up the hill under the wallside and vanished by the riven oak.

"Dang it," said Owd Zub, greatly interested, and understanding, "I owt to ha' knawn shoo'd ha' gooan to 'em if they came owt near 'em."

By the time he arrived on the spot, and he walked across the field with a great show of carelessness, Zubdil had

the whimpering youngsters on the grass and was examining them. Couched near by, her tail going in great pride, Lucy was mothering each one as it was laid down again.

"They're a poor lot," said the elder man, eyeing them critically, and discreetly making no reference to the finding of them; "put 'em ivvery one i't' pail."

Zubdil did not reply immediately. He was watching one puppy, more vigorous than any of the rest, trying to prop itself up on its forelegs. Its sightless eyes were turned towards him, its tiny nostrils were working, and there was a decided quiver-it was an immature wagging-in its wisp of a tail. He picked it up again. A tiny patch of red slid out and licked his hand, and there were faint noises that brought Lucy's ears to the prick. Zubdil laughed.

"Sitha for pluck, fayther," he cried. "This is best o' t' lot. I'se keeping this for mysen."

"Thou'll drown t' lot," said his father, sharply. "We've dogs enough on t' farm. Besides, they're hawf deead."

They are sparing of speech, these Craven dalesmen, but their words are ever to the point. They have also a stiff measure of obstinacy in their constitution, as have all men whose forbears for generations have lived and died amid the everlasting hills. Obstinacy now showed in the younger man. He put the youngster down beside the mother dog, gathered up the others into a bag that he took from his capacious pocket, and rose. Lucy was up in an instant, ears cocked. Zubdil checked her sternly.

"Lig thee theer," he ordered, and she resumed her nursing under constraint. Young Zub turned to the elder.

"I'se keeping it," he announced briefly.

The other knew that tone, and gave in. "Well," grudgingly, "I'se heving nowt to do wi' it, then. An' if theer's another license to get, tha pays for it thysen."

So the pup was spared, and she flourished and grew apace. Nance, he called her, after one from a neighboring farm, thoughts of whom had been occupying his mind a good deal of late. He ventured to tell her what he had done when one evening, by chance that had been occurring frequently of late, he met her by the old bridge. The girl reddened with pleasure at the implied compliment, giggled a little, and gave him a playful nudge with her elbow. It was a nudge that would have upset many a city-bred man. "Thou's a silly fond fellow," she said, but there was no reproach in her words. Rather was it that in turn he was pleased. It was a little incident that marked a distinct advance in their relations.

It was also an incident that led young Zub to take more interest in the dog's welfare than otherwise he might have done. Dimly floating at the back of his mind, tinged with romance, was the idea that the fourfooted Nance ought to be worthy of the name she bore. It led him to take her education in hand seriously, and to the task he brought all his fieldcraft, his native shrewdness, and his great patience. He began early, when she was not yet half grown and still a playful puppy; but, early as he was, someone was before him.

Whatever her demerits as a mother, Lucy excelled in woodcraft and the art of the chase. She had the soul of an artist for it, which was perhaps why, as an ordinary working farm dog, she was an indifferent success. And what she knew she taught her daughter, taking the young one with her as soon as Nance was strong enough to stand these excursions.

Their favorite time was dawn of day, and their hunting-ground the woods that mantled the breast of the moors high above the farm, or the sandy stretches along Wharfe side, where fat rabbits were abundant. Nance was an apt pupil. She learned to stalk, to obliterate herself behind seemingly inadequate cover, to crawl almost without action visible to the eye, and her instinct for choosing the moment for the final fatal rush was not bettered even in the older dog.

Thus it happened that when Zubdil took up her training the ground had been prepared for him better than ever he knew. Yet he began his task opportunely, for Nance was at the parting of the ways. Lucy was a clever dog, but her best and finest qualities, neglected through want of recognition, had deteriorated until she was now no more than a cunning hunter. The little dog-l'ile Nance she was to everybody-inherited all her mother's cleverness, and, happily for her, Zubdil took her in hand while yet she was in her plastic, impressionable days. He made her his constant companion. If he went no farther than the length of the field to fasten up the chickens safe from the predatory fox, he called her to accompany him. If he went on to the moor, or to the village, or to a neighboring farm, she was with him. And she was taught to do strange things. Sometimes she was sent chasing round a field and brought back to heel in zigzag tracings. At other times she was bidden to crouch by a gate and to stir not at all until his return. Sometimes she was sent ahead at full gallop and then made to stop dead and lie prone, when he would overtake and pass her, man and dog alike apparently unconscious of each other's presence, save for the way in which those pearly eyes of hers watched his every movement.

It was all done with no more

language than can be conveyed in a whistle. But expressive! With his ash stick tucked under one arm Zubdil would thrust the better part, as it seemed, of both hands into his mouth, whence would proceed now a single piercing call, now a prolonged highpitched note, now a series of staccato commands, and ever and again fluty modulations as if a blackbird had joined in the business. And every note had a definite meaning. It was a great game for Nance, who at these times was nothing more than two bright eyes and a pair of ever-working ears. She strove to please and worked hard, and when it dawned upon the deliberately moving mind of the young dalesman that he had a dog of unusual parts it stimulated him to greater efforts. It also stimulated him to secrecy, though why he could not have explained.

He gave her experience in the rounding-up of the half-wild, hardy, half-bred sheep on the moorlands, and here she learned to work dumbly, without yielding to the temptation to nip the flying legs of the nervous fleeces. It was on these uplands, too, that he received his first meed of praise, and it fired the smouldering pride in his heart and lifted him out of the ordinary workaday rut. For it gave him an idea. It was dippingtime, when the moors had to be thoroughly scoured for the sheep, and from a dozen farms in the dale below men had gathered together to cooperate in the work. With them came their dogs; dogs that barked and fought, dogs that raced hither and thither irresolutely trying to obey the many and confusing whistlings, doing their best to please all and giving satisfaction to none. Young Zub stood on a knoll a little apart, and at his bidding a silver and gray-brown form flashed among the bracken and the ling, sometimes buried from sight,

at times only the tips of pricked ears visible, but always making a wider and further stretching circle than the others. And wherever Nance ranged sheep came into view and were deftly piloted to the common gatheringground.

It was Long Abram who first recognized what she was doing.

"That theer young dog o' thy lad's is doing weel," he said, turning to Owd Zub. "It'll mak a rare 'un i' time."

It was luncheon-time, and the men had halted in their work to discuss the contents of the baskets that had been sent up from the farms. Owd Zub helped himself to another piece of cold apple pie before answering.

"It's a good dog nah," he said presently, speaking with deliberation, "if t' lad doesn't get it ower fond."

"Ower fond?" It was Nance the woman who spoke. She had brought up her father's luncheon and was sitting near at hand. There was a sparkle in her eye, and her resolute little chin was thrust forth aggressively. "Ower fond," she repeated, scornfully. "Some o'yo think us younger end can't do owt reight. Why, Zubdil's trained that dog reight, an' all. It's good enough for t' trials."

The men laughed good-humoredly. The girl's relations with Zubdil were now well established and recognized, and her quick intervention was to be expected. But good enough for the trials-well, working it on the moors was one thing, but to direct an inexperienced dog on an enclosed field under the eyes of a crowd, and in competition with some of the best and most experienced trial working animals, was another matter altogether. They laughed at the girl's warmth, and let it go at that. But young Zub,

happening to walk past at the time while counting up the sheep, heard the words. They quickened him and gave