Begins with Juvenile Flirtation, and Ends with Canine Cremation.  
The disreputable nature of the wind which blows good to nobody has been so frequently referred to and commented on by writers in general that it merits only passing notice here. The particular breeze which fanned the flames that consumed the property that belonged to Miss Lillycrop, and drove that lady to a charming retreat in the country thereby rescuing her from a trying existence in town, also blew small Peter Pax in the same direction.
 
“Boy,” said Miss Stivergill in stern tones, on the occasion of her first visit to the hospital in which Pax was laid up for a short time after his adventure, “you’re a good boy. I like you. The first of your sex I ever said that to.”
 
“Thank you, ma’am. I hope I shan’t be the last,” returned Pax languidly, for he was still weak from the effects of the partial roasting and suffocation he had undergone.
 
“Miss Lillycrop desired me to come and see you,” resumed Miss Stivergill. “She has told me how bravely you tried to rescue poor little Bones, who—”
 
“Not much hurt, I hope?” asked the boy eagerly.
 
“No, very little—scarcely at all, I’m glad to say. Those inexplicable creatures called firemen, who seem to me what you may call fire-fiends of a good-natured and recklessly hilarious type, say that her having fallen down with her nose close to the ground, where there is usually a free current of air, saved her. At all events she is saved, and quite well.”
 
“I hope I didn’t haul much of the hair out of her poor head?” said Pax.
 
“Apparently not, if one may judge from the very large quantity that remains,” replied his visitor.
 
“You see, ma’am, in neck-or-nothin’ scrimmages o’ that sort,” continued Pax, in the off-hand tone of one much experienced in such scrimmages, “one can’t well stop to pick and choose; besides, I couldn’t see well, d’ee see? an’ her hair came first to hand, you know, an’ was convenient. It’s well for both on us, however, that that six foot odd o’ magnificence came to the rescue in time. I like ’im, I do, an’ shall owe ’im a good turn for savin’ little Bones.—What was her other name, did you say, ma’am?”
 
“I didn’t mention any other name, but I believe it is Tottie.—Now, little Peter, when the doctor gives you leave to be moved, you are to come to me to recruit your health in the country.”
 
“Thank you, ma’am. You’re too good,” said Pax, becoming languid again. “Pray give my best respects to Tottie and Miss Lillycrop.”
 
“So small, and so pretty, and such a wise little thing,” murmured Miss Stivergill, unaware, apparently, that she soliloquised aloud.
 
“So big, and so ugly, and such a good-hearted stoopid old thing!” murmured Pax; but it is only just to add that he was too polite to allow the murmur to be heard.
 
“Good-bye, little Peter, till we meet again,” said Miss Stivergill, turning away abruptly.
 
“Farewell, ma’am,” said Pax, “farewell; and if for ever—”
 
He stopped, because his visitor was gone.
 
According to this arrangement, Pax found himself, not many days after, revelling in the enjoyment of what he styled “tooral-ooral” felicity—among cows and hay, sunshine and milk, buttercups and cream, green meadows and blue skies,—free as a butterfly from telegraphic messagery and other postal cares. He was allowed to ramble about at will, and, as little Bones was supposed to be slightly invalided by her late semi-suffocation, she was frequently allowed by her indulgent mistress to accompany him.
 
Seated on a stile one day, Pax drew Tottie out as to her early life, and afterwards gave an account of his own in exchange.
 
“How strange,” said Tottie, “that you and I should both have had bybies to nuss w’en we was young, ain’t it?”
 
“It is, Tot—very remarkable. And we’ve had a sad fate, both of us, in havin’ bin wrenched from our babbies. But the wrench couldn’t have bin so bad in your case as in mine, of course, for your babby was nobody to you, whereas mine was a full cousin, an’ such a dear one too. Oh, Tot, you’ve no notion what splendid games we used to have, an’ such c’lections of things I used to make for ’er! Of course she was too young to understand it, you know, for she could neither walk nor speak, and I don’t think could understand, though she crowed sometimes as if she did. My! how she crowed!—But what’s the matter, Tot?”
 
Tottie was pouting.
 
“I don’t like your bybie at all—not one bit,” she said emphatically.
 
“Not like my babby!” exclaimed Pax.
 
“No, I don’t, ’cause it isn’t ’alf so good as mine.”
 
“Well,” returned Pax, with a smile, “I was took from mine. I didn’t forsake it like you.”
 
“I didn’t forsake it,” cried Tottie, with flashing eyes, and shaking her thick curls indignantly—which latter, by the way, since her coming under the stern influence of Miss Stivergill, had been disentangled, and hung about her like a golden glory.—“I left it to go to service, and mother takes care of it till I return home. I won’t speak to you any more. I hate your bybie, and I adore mine!”
 
So saying, little Bones jumped up and ran away. Small Pax made no attempt to stop her or to follow. He was too much taken aback by the sudden burst of passion to be able for more than a prolonged whistle, followed by a still more prolonged stare. Thereafter he sauntered away slowly, ruminating, perhaps, on the fickle character of woman, even in her undeveloped stages.
 
Tottie climbed hastily over a stile and turned into a green lane, where she meant to give full vent to her feelings in a satisfactory cry, when she was met face to face by Mr Abel Bones.
 
“Why, father!” she exclaimed, running to her sire with a look of joyful surprise, for occasional bad treatment had failed to dry up the bottomless well of love in her little heart.
 
“Hush! Tottie; there—take my hand, an’ don’t kick up such a row. You needn’t look so scared at seein’ me here. I’m fond o’ the country, you know, an’ I’ve come out to ’ave a little walk and a little talk with you.—Who was that you was talkin’ with just now?”
 
Tottie told him.
 
“Stoppin’ here, I s’pose?”
 
“Yes. He’s bin here for some time, but goes away soon—now that he’s better. It was him as saved my life—at least him and Mr Aspel, you know.”
 
“No, I don’t know, Tot. Let’s hear all about it,” replied Mr Bones, with a look of unwonted gravity.
 
Tottie went off at once into a glowing account of the fire and the rescue, to which her father listened with profound attention, not unmingled with surprise. Then he reverted to the aspect of the surrounding country.
 
“It’s a pretty place you live in here, Tot, an’ a nice house. It’s there the lady lives, I suppose who has the strange fancy to keep her wealth in a box on the sideboard? Well, it is curious, but there’s no accountin’ for the fancies o’ the rich, Tot. An’ you say she keeps no men-servants about her? Well, that’s wise, for men are dangerous characters for women to ’ave about ’em. She’s quite right. There’s a dear little dog too, she keeps, I’m told. Is that the only one she owns?”
 
“Yes, it’s the only one, and such a darlin’ it is, and so fond of me!” exclaimed Tottie.
 
“Ah, yes, wery small, but wery noisy an’ vicious,” remarked Mr Bones, with a sudden scowl, which fortunately his daughter did not see.
 
“O no, father; little Floppart ain’t vicious, though it is awful noisy w’en it chooses.”
 
“Well, Tot, I’d give a good deal to see that dear little Floppart, and make friends with it. D’you think you could manage to get it to follow you here?”
 
“Oh, easily. I’ll run an’ fetch it; but p’r’aps you had better come to the house. I know they’d like to see you, for they’re so kind to me.”
 
Mr Bones laughed sarcastically, and expressed his belief that they wouldn’t like to see him at all.
 
Just at that moment Miss Stivergill came round the turn of the lane and confronted them.
 
“Well, little Bones, whom have you here?” asked the lady, with a stern look at Mr Bones.
 
“Please, ma’am, it’s father. He ’appened to be in this neighbourhood, and came to see me.”
 
“Your father!” exclaimed Miss Stivergill, with a look of surprise. “Indeed!”
 
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bones, politely taking off his hat and looking her coolly in the face. “I ’ope it’s no offence, but I came a bit out o’ my way to see ’er. She says you’ve bin’ wery kind to her.”
 
“Well, she says the truth. I mean to be kind to her,” returned Miss Stivergill, as sternly as before.—“Take your father to the cottage, child, and tell them to give him a glass of beer. If you see Miss Lillycrop, tell her I’ve gone to the village, and won’t be back for an hour.” So saying, Miss Stivergill walked down the lane with masculine strides, leaving Tottie pleased, and her father smiling.
 
“I don’t want no beer, Tot,” said the latter. “But you go to the cottage and fetch me that dear little dog. I want to see it; and don’t forge............