"How beautiful?" interrupted Chris, with his usual aptitude for asking questions. "As beautiful as Jacky?"
"I think more beautiful," she replied, without pausing to consider.
"Then he was a nasty dog," he said, with vehemence. "I don't like a dog what is more beautiful than my Jacky."
"He was such a different kind of dog," she said deprecatingly. "A Newfoundland dog cannot very well be compared with a fox-terrier, my pet."
"What was his name?" asked the little beggar, accepting Granny's explanation and letting the matter pass.
"Rover; that was what he was called," she replied. "His little mistress loved him dearly," she continued.
"Did he belong to a girl?" Chris inquired, with some contempt on the substantive.
"Yes; and they always used to go out for pleasant walks together," she went on. "But never near the river, for she had said many a time, 'Don't go near the river, my darling, for it is not safe; not for a little girl like you'."
"Who said that?" he asked, speaking with some impatience. "The little girl—or what?"
"The little girl's mother," replied Granny, a trifle drowsily.