Polly looked up at him. It was a second before she understood.
"Bob, he's not— Oh, Sandy! You've left me," she sobbed, and buried her head in his silky coat.
All Christmas day Polly tried to keep up her spirits and not spoil the others' pleasure, but her heart had a dull, lonely ache that wouldn't go away. Any one who has loved and lost a faithful dog understands. And Polly had loved Sandy from his first puppy days.
All the family did their best to cheer her up, but the day was a woeful failure. Uncle Roddy and Bob were the only ones who understood her grief, and their own was so great that they could find no words of comfort.
After dinner she disappeared. She knew that all the afternoon callers would be dropping in to exchange greetings, and she could not bear the thought of talking to them.
Bob found her about four o'clock, curled up on her favorite window seat, at the head of the stairs. He had been despatched by his mother to tell her that some of her friends were in the drawing-room.
"If she doesn't want to come don't urge her," she had warned him. "I'll make some excuse."
"Bobby, I just can't," Polly said when he had told her. "My eyes are all swollen and I've such a headache."
"What you need is air," Bob said decidedly. "Go get your coat and hat, and we'll fly off with Banker for a little ride. Come on, Poll," he coaxed, "it will do you loads of good."
Polly gave in reluctantly.