“Perhaps someone else does?” suggested Gilead.
“Yes, father.”
“Shall I see him about it, then?” She did not answer. “What’s wrong with him—the dog, I mean?” asked the young man.
The boy answered for her, with a contemptuous laugh.
“He bit somebody. Anybody would have, her.”
Gilead kept a discreet silence.
“Here’s the gate of the Rectory, if you want to see Mr Brown,” said the boy, stopping; and then Gilead saw that the little girl was in floods of tears. He bent down, very concerned.
“If he has to go, Judy,” he whispered, “he shall find a good friend.”
“O! don’t be such a ninny,” said the boy. “What’s a dog anyway? I’m not going to go fishing with you, you know, if you’re going on like this.”
He walked off, whistling. She sniffed once or twice, dried her eyes on her sleeve, and fled after him. Gilead, watching the two a moment, turned through a gate into a leafy drive, which swept round a semi-circle of lawn to the front of a white-latticed creeper-hung house of two storeys, where, ringing the bell, he sent in his card to Mr Brown.