"How feeble he is," Bob said. "He doesn't act a bit well, Poll."
"It's old age, I'm afraid," Polly replied, sadly. "He's over fourteen, you know."
"I'm going to carry him up," Bob said. "I believe it hurts him to take these steps." He picked up Sandy ever so gently and carried him to Polly's room. "Good night again," he said at the door, "and Merry Christmas."
But all the wishes in the world cannot make happiness. That Christmas Day was far from merry for either Polly or Bob.
About two o'clock in the morning Polly awoke with a start. Some one was groaning. As she sat up in bed and tried to rub the sleep from her eyes, she felt something touch her arm. It was Sandy's paw.
After groping about in the dark she found the matches and lighted her candle, and jumped out on the floor.
"What is it, boy?" she asked, resting his head in her lap.
Sandy rolled his eyes, as dogs do when they are in pain and the agonized appeal in them made a lump rise in Polly's throat.
"Dear old fellow, what is it?" she said, gently. "What can I do for you!" She was seized with sudden fright. It seemed as if she alone was awake in all that black, still night. She called Lois two or three times but got no reply. She went to the door and listened. Her friend's regular breathing came to her faintly from the other room.
"What can I do?" she whispered. "Oh, Sandy boy, don't," she pleaded as the dog groaned again.