"Yonder is O'Brien with his express waggon. Give him the checks, and he will have the trunks at home almost as soon as we get there. Michael O'Brien!"
As the ruddy, beaming pleasant countenance of the express man approached, and he received the checks, Mr. Roscoe sprang into the carriage, but Regina summoned courage to speak.
"If you please, I want my dog."
"Your dog! Did you leave it in the car? Is it a poodle?"
"Poodle! He is a Newfoundland, and the express agent has him."
"Then O'Brien will bring him with the trunks," said Mr. Roscoe, preparing to close the door.
"I would not like to leave him behind."
"You certainly do not expect to carry him in the carriage?" answered the gentleman, staring at her, as if she had been a refugee from some insane asylum.
"Why not? There seems plenty of room. I am so much afraid something might happen to him among all these people. But perhaps you would not like him shut up in the carriage."
For an instant she seemed sorely embarrassed, then leaning forward, addressed the coachman.