"Why, Ruth, you know nothing of the kind. You must not talk so." Miss Hester spoke severely, but there was a flicker of a smile around the corners of her mouth.
"Oh, keep quiet, Ruth," put in Billy. "I want to hear about Stray."
But Ruth's indignation was still burning.
"I'll bet if that man had been your father, he wouldn't have let you keep Stray," she continued.
"Very likely he would not have, but never mind about that. Stray lived to a good old age and died long after my little sister did. My father got Bruno for me because I mourned so for Stray."
"If—if—" Ruth looked at Billy and slipped a cold trembling little hand into his. The critical moment had come. She swallowed once or twice and began again: "If—if you and your sister had found Stray with four little puppies in the wood-shed, do you think your father-would have let you keep them all? Was he as good as all that?"
"He was good enough to do anything that was right and just, Ruth, but I don't think he would have consented to our having five dogs."
"I don't think five are a great many," Billy spoke up. "Dr. Peaslee has six or eight."
"He has a pack of hounds, I admit, but they are hunting dogs and are not house pets."
Ruth gave a long sigh. "How many do you suppose he would have let you keep?" she asked.