“Good doggie!” Cried Miss Bussey. “Come then! Bring it to me, dear. Good Paul!”
John’s face was distorted with agony. He darted toward Paul, fell on him, and gripped him closely. Paul yelped and Miss Bussey observed, in an indignant tone, that John need not throttle the dog. John muttered something.
“Is the letter so very precious?” asked his hostess ironically.
“Precious!” cried John. “Yes!—No!—It’s nothing at all.”
But he opened Paul’s mouth and took out his treasure with wonderful care.
“And why,” inquired Miss Bussey, “are you not with Mary, young man? You’re very neglectful.”
“Neglectful! Surely, Miss Bussey, you haven’t noticed anything—like neglect? Don’t say——”
“Bless the boy! I was only joking. You’re a model lover.”
“Thank you, thank you. I’ll go to her at once,” and he sped towards the window, opened it and walked up to Mary. Miss Bussey followed him and arrived just in time to see the lovers locked in one another’s arms, their faces expressing all appropriate rapture.
“There’s nothing much wrong,” said Miss Bussey; wherein Miss Bussey herself was much wrong.