“Oh, Mother,” she cried, “do come down. We found a hound in a red jersey in the tunnel, and he's broken his leg and they're bringing him home.”
“They ought to take him to the vet,” said Mother, with a worried frown; “I really CAN'T have a lame dog here.”
“He's not a dog, really—he's a boy,” said Bobbie, between laughing and choking.
“Then he ought to be taken home to his mother.”
“His mother's dead,” said Bobbie, “and his father's in Northumberland. Oh, Mother, you will be nice to him? I told him I was sure you'd want us to bring him home. You always want to help everybody.”
Mother smiled, but she sighed, too. It is nice that your children should believe you willing to open house and heart to any and every one who needs help. But it is rather embarrassing sometimes, too, when they act on their belief.
“Oh, well,” said Mother, “we must make the best of it.”
When Jim was carried in, dreadfully white and with set lips whose red had faded to a horrid bluey violet colour, Mother said:—
“I am glad you brought him here. Now, Jim, let's get you comfortable in bed before the Doctor comes!”
And Jim, looking at her kind eyes, felt a little, warm, comforting flush of new courage.