He starts to go the other way. Then he sees the dog. He goes up to him;
he is speaking to him, wanting to know what is the matter. She can
fairly hear the warmth and kindness of his voice as he speaks to the
little dog. He feels of the muzzle--finds it too tight; he lets it out a
notch. _Dear_ Howie. Of _course_ he would do that. No one else had
cared, but he would care. Then he speaks to the dog--pats him--tells him
he is all right now. Then Howie turns away.
But the dog thinks he will go with this nice person! Howie laughs and
tells him he can't come. A little girl has come across the street. Howie
tells her to keep the dog from following him. Then again he turns to go.
But just before he passes from sight the child calls something to him,
and he looks back over his shoulder and smiles. She sees again the smile
that has been the heart of her life. Then he passes from sight.
And he always leaves friends behind him--just as he always did leave
friends behind him. There will be little murmurs of approval; sometimes
there is applause. Tonight a woman near Laura said, "Say, I bet that's
an awful nice fellow."
She never left her seat at once, as if moving would break a spell. For a
little while after she had seen it, his smile would stay with her. Then
it would fade, as things fade in the motion pictures.
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