Lucy Harding by Mary Jane Holmes

As the sun was not down-for we were in the midst of the long, northern days, when darkness and daylight almost kiss each other in a parting embrace-I suggested that we take a little stroll and look at St. Isaac's and other points of interest. As we were leaving the hotel, we met the gendarme, Michel, who, I found, came often to the hotel, inquiring after passports and any newcomers, or those who had changed their quarters. A civil bow was all I awarded him, as I hurried outside, where I found my friends crowded around a huge mastiff, sitting upon his haunches, as if waiting for some one-his master, probably. He was of a species which, in America, we call a Russian collie, and esteem for their fidelity and gentleness. He was the handsomest dog I had ever seen, with his fine, intelligent face, and long, silky mane, and, as I was fond of animals of all kinds, I stooped to caress him, while he beat his bushy tail in token of appreciation and good will.

"You are a beauty," I said. "I wonder whose dog you are, and what is your name?"