The little girl knew that he would probably come back in his own good time, but she and Billy did not like him to associate with certain evilly disposed curs around in the next street, and moreover, he was still such a little fellow, ready to make friends with any one who encouraged a friendship, that they were afraid he might be picked up and carried off. Fast though Ruth's legs hurried, Stray's four carried him faster, but his career came to a full stop when a man coming in an opposite direction caught him and held him fast till Ruth ran up panting.
"Oh, thank you for catching Stray," she said. "He is only in fun, of course, but we don't like him to get into the next street; there are so many bad dogs there."
"And you must look out for his morals," returned the man, lifting himself from where he was bending over holding the squirming Stray. "What's your name?" he asked sharply and dropping his jocose tone while he bent a keen look upon the child.
"Ruth Henrietta Brackenbury," came the reply promptly enough.
The man drew in his breath sharply. "Ruth," he said, "that was her name too, and I think she would have looked much like you."
"Your little girl, do you mean? Is she—is she dead?" Ruth asked.
"I am afraid so."
"Oh, don't you know?"
The man shook his head and walked along by Ruth's side as she dragged the unwilling Stray toward home. "Do you live near here?" he asked presently.
"Yes, just around the corner. We used to live in that big house," she nodded toward the white pillars which showed between the russet brown leaves of the oaks.