Folded in the arms of that day was Ann just then.

The breeze stirred a little wisp of hair on her temple--gently swayed the knot of ribbon at her throat.

The spring was wooing Ann; her face softened as she listened.

Was it something of that same force which bounded boisterously up in boy and dogs which was stealing over Ann--softening, healing, claiming?
The next paragraph of the story on the printed page was less interesting.
"Aunt Kate," said Worth, gathering both puppies into his arms as they were succeeding all too well in demonstrating that they were going to grow up and be real dogs, "Watts says it is the ungodliest thing he knows of that these puppies haven't got any names." "I am glad to learn," murmured Kate, "that Watts is a true son of the church.

He yearns for a christening ?" "He says that being as nobody else has thought up names for them, he calls the one that is most yellow, Mike; and the one that is most white, Pat.