viously these disdainful foreigners with their sad, hungry eyes, could but talk to us, I am sure that they would tell us that they, too, would like to have the bright collars and warm blankets that these strangers wear, just as poor, ragged boys envy the boy who has a warm coat for winter; but they would also tell us, I think, that there is a story among them of which the very wise old dogs, who know the city well, are very fond of informing any one who will listen. Long, long ago, they say their ancestors too wore coats - coats of the finest silk, beautifully embroidered. That, however, was when all people were differently dressed, and there were only Greeks in Constantinople, and no people from Europe to be seen on the streets. Nowadays the Turks think otherwise about the dogs, and I feel sure that these poor little wanderers miss something more than blankets and clean brass collars- the kind words and loving treatment which most American dogs receive. You can tell that from the look in their eyes when you speak to some tired out old fellow lying on the hard pavement, or play with the jolly little puppy across the way, who is just waiting for some one, man or dog, to frolic with. It is a nicer look and a much more grateful one than you get when you throw them a piece of bread.

The reason why there are so few dogs who have homes and masters is not hard to find. It is because the Turks have a queer idea - it is part of their queer religion - that dogs are such unclean animals that they must never be allowed to enter a house. On the street, however, they feed them and even pet them; and when a man knows that he has done something wrong, he will often try to make up for it by feeding all the dogs he can find. Sometimes when rich Turks die they leave sums of money to be spent in feeding the street dogs, just as in America people leave money to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. The Turks never strike or hurt a dog; so if, as sometimes happens in Constantinople, you see a man kicking or beating some poor, howling animal, you may be very sure that he is a Greek or an Armenian. Nor do the Turks ever kill vagrant dogs, but think it right to allow them to exist as best they can.

So there have come to be in the streets of Constantinople hundreds and hundreds of wolflike dogs, about the size of small setters or pointers, but different from them in that they have narrow, long heads. Yellow dogs, black dogs, brown dogs, and white dogs, you see them everywhere on the sidewalks, in the gutters, on the doorsteps, under the carriages, in every corner or hole into which a dog can creep and curl himself up into a round bunch. All day long they lie huddled up or stretched out on their sides, fast asleep, no matter how much noise goes on about them. In the busiest business streets they lie by twos and threes in the middle of the sidewalk, where hundreds of patient people step over them, or go around them, and never think of making them get out of the way. In the side streets and small squares there are often assemblages of twenty or twenty-five sleeping in the greatest peace and harmony, until some dog from another street ventures in, when there is at once a great deal of barking, and sometimes severe fighting; for even if these dogs have no homes, they have certain districts, or places, which they consider their own, and will permit no one not belonging to their particular set to enter. Thus the street of butchers in Pera, the nicest quarter of Constantinople, has some twenty or more dogs who are always to be found there. I saw two dogs lying day after day in front of one of the great banks; and one fond mother-dog brought up four puppies in an uncovered box at the gateway of the British Embassy.

Although many of these patient animals are lame, and sick with mange or some other sickness to which dogs are liable, though some have no tails and others but one ear, it can at least be said that the majority look fat and hearty, as if they had plenty to eat. As soon as it is dark and the shops begin to close, the dogs commence to wander in search of food. The butcher, shutting up his shop, throws into the street the bits of meat which fell from the cleaver, and the restaurant or coffee-room keeper does the same with the bits of vegetables and bread he has left over. In the early morning the house-servants put the kitchen sweepings and the ash-barrels outside for the ash-carts, and there are always dogs on hand at once to

told me the most remarkable case of this I have yet heard. The Oriental Express, the famous train from Paris to Constantinople, arrives, it seems, three times a week, at a certain hour in the afternoon. When the train comes in there are always many dogs ready to receive it. Before the passengers have had time to get out, the dogs jump into the carriages and search everywhere under the seats and in the corners for the scraps of luncheon left by the passengers; and when they have found all the pieces they go away. The remarkable thing is that they never come at any time except when the Oriental Express is due; that they never make a mistake in the day, and always remember that between Friday and Monday there are two days, and not one. They pay no attention to local trains because little or no food is left in them owing to the short rides the passengers take Exactly this same knowledge of the time-table and of the difference between local and long-distance trains has been noticed at the station of the Asiatic railways in Scutari, across the Bosphorus.

At night-time there is a great deal of noise and barking in the streets, so that people who visit Constantinople often have trouble in getting to sleep. Indeed, there is often likely to be considerable canine discussion when two or three hungry dogs find the same bone at once. Sometimes this discussion goes beyond the "I got here first." No, you did n't; it's my bone!" style of talking, and what follows is often the reason why some dogs have but three serviceable legs, or noses that are torn and scratched. When morning comes they are back in their old places, or trying what seems like a soft stone on the sidewalk of the next street, ready for another day's sleep-from the mother who has been looking for food for her puppies, to the gay young dogs who would have you believe that they have been all about the town in a few hours, and been in a great many desperate fights indeed.

In summer, when the sidewalks become hot they look for shady places, regretting that dogs are so very attractive to the flies, which relentlessly torment them. Unlike many of our dogs, they are never troubled by muzzles, even in the hottest weather, cases of madness among them being rare indeed, and they never seem to attack people, however often they attack each other. It is in winter, however, that they suffer most, when the streets are covered with snow or when they are deep with mud. Then their thick, shaggy coats give little protection from the cold, and are heavily matted with dirt and constantly wet. They snuggle up against one another more than ever, the mother does her best to keep the little ones warm, and every dog protects his nose from the cold by covering it with his paws or by putting it against his friend and neighbor. Of course they don't sleep all the time, and when they are awake I 'm sure they talk a great deal to each other.

The old dogs whine about the hard times, and say that things were different when they were young, and shake their heads when they add that they don't know what is to become of them- but that, you know, is the privilege of all old folks. The younger dogs, if they listen at all, cock their ears and wink at each other in the most disrespectful manner; for they feel perfectly sure that they will be able to find their breakfast and lunch and dinner, all in one, as soon as the sun goes down. If the times are hard, they say, there are still a great many who succeed in getting so fat and lazy that they hardly deign to get out of the way of the horseAnd the proof that the young dogs are right is that if you could go to Constantinople and take a walk down one of the main streets with me, we could count more than two hundred and fifty dogs in twenty minutes; and I can promise you that two hundred and forty-nine and a half out of that number would undoubtedly be sound asleep. The other half would be wagging its tail.

cars.

VOL. XXIV.- 119.

[This story was begun in the February number.]

CHAPTER XII.

LAST DAYS WITH THE AUBREYS.

MRS. AUBREY'S dressing-room was the visible center of the establishment, and in it she was wont to sit, calm and capable, holding every thread of the web of the daily life in one pair of small hands. She was a woman who could have governed a kingdom, so great was her administrative ability, and she did govern her woman's kingdom with infinite tact and success. To see her when the housekeeper came with her bills, or Fräulein with reports or complaints of the children, or the nurse with her budget about the babies, or the servants with their grievances, or the children with their squabbles, or the boys with their lessons, was to see what a mistress and mother can be ordering, arranging, contriving, harmonizing, suggesting, pacifying; firm yet very kind, calm but never indifferent as to what was said or done; holding her scales like a judge for justice, loving but never weakly indulgent; providing for the comfort and happiness of every member of the great household, from the scullion up to the master; thoughtful, unselfish, "a perfect woman, nobly planned." And it was wonderful what she accomplished. She found time to do a great deal of mothering, with all her religious, social, and charitable duties. She took an active part in the kindergarten methods of Fräulein Hochzeiter, a clever and most enthusiastic pupil of Fröbel and Pestalozzi. She read aloud to her children an hour every evening.

She examined into the children's progress in their studies, and every Saturday gave them a little feast and holiday, at which their exercises for the week - French letters, German compo

sitions, maps, drawings. were shown, and poems were recited, and their duets and solos were played.

Every Friday her girls gathered about her, and sewed for the poor of the parish for two hours, after which they put up two large boxes of flowers in wet moss, and sent them off to the London hospitals, took dainties to the sick of the estate or the neighborhood, read to the old and blind people in the cottages, and generally observed their duty to their neighbor. She walked with her children, talked to them, made a study of their characters, knew the peculiarities, temptations, virtues of each one, and watched the development of each child as carefully as if it had been the only one.

It was a pretty sight to see them clustered about her for a talk, a story, or games; a prettier to see the rows of flaxen polls and brown heads in the family pew, going through their devotions with so much quietness and reverence. Reverence and a respect for authority she had contrived to implant in them very early. "I don't wish you to behave well at church from the lowest motive, but from the highest. It is extremely ill-bred to misbehave in church, but far better to remember that the place is sacred," she had told them.

Into this system, as I have said, Nina was soon absorbed. Marian shared Fräulein's labors, and took certain classes — drawing, mathematics, English literature. The example and influence of the cousins made Nina first docile ; then her interest was aroused, and at last her ambition. And soon Marian had the satisfaction of seeing her study as she had never studied in her life; indeed, she had to cut down Nina's tasks and regulate her feverish industry before long, so determined was Nina "not to let the English get ahead of the Americans." She amazed her aunt, too, by her cleverness with