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 he firmly decided to retain Gilead in his retinue. But he no longer took outward joy in Gilead's unseemliness of action and appetite. The boy whose spiritual eyes had been opened even showed no sign of anger when Shivers rescued for the fifth time from the river the Widow Tiffins's three drowned kittens, which Lonely had as carefully though hurriedly replaced in their watery grave. Even when Gilead ate a goodly part of his newly pasted house-kite no word of reproof fell from the boy's lips—though in times past all such transgressions had marked sorry days in the predaceous existence of his meek and ever faithful pet.

One of Lonely's sorest trials, in his efforts to lead a new life, was his diurnal watering of the decrepit Plato—a task, by the way, out of which he had once wrung not a little excitement. For Plato, whether because of some mere caprice of the spirit, some mysterious weakness of the flesh, or some pertinacious association of idea, or, perhaps, even some long-continued abuse at the hands of a former owner, had to be soundly kicked in the stomach before he would drink a pail of water.