“How do you feel, this morning?” inquired Kennedy as we entered the sun-parlor, where Mrs. Blake had first received us.
A single glance was enough to satisfy me of the seriousness of her condition. She seemed to be in almost a stupor from which she roused herself only with difficulty. It was as if some overpowering toxin were gradually undermining her already weakened constitution.
She nodded recognition, but nothing further.
Kennedy had set the dog basket down near her wheel-chair and she caught sight of it.
“Buster?” she murmured, raising her eyes. “Is—he—all right?”
For answer, Craig simply raised the lid of the basket. Buster already seemed to have recognized the voice of his mistress, and, with an almost human instinct, to realize that though he himself was still weak and ill, she needed encouragement.
As Mrs. Blake stretched out her slender hand, drawn with pain, to his silky head, he gave a little yelp of delight and his little red tongue eagerly caressed her hand.
It was as though the two understood each other. Although Mrs. Blake, as yet, had no more idea what had happened to her pet, she seemed to feel by some subtle means of thought transference that the intelligent little animal was conveying to her a message of hope. The caress, the sharp, joyous yelp, and the happy wagging of the bushy tail seemed to brighten her up, at least for the moment, almost as if she had received a new impetus.
“Buster!” she exclaimed, overjoyed to get her pet back again in so much improved condition.
“I wouldn’t exert myself too much, Mrs. Blake,” cautioned Kennedy.