I suppose you would like to know if Dickon lived in his little house? It was of tin, and so new and bright that it did look like silver. He had a nice bed made of cotton wool, in the upper story. But did he sleep in it? Well—sometimes. One morning he was not there; and after much vain searching Lulu was sure that he was dead—had run away—been stolen—the cat had eaten him.
And she was dolefully sobbing for each separate fate, when Robert opened the kitchen door and said, “Ah, come ’ere now, Miss Luly! an’ ye’ll laugh a laugh as big as Tim Toole’s.”
Robert was a favorite with Lulu, and she followed him up-stairs into the grain-chamber, sobbing and sighing as she went.
He swung her up in his strong arms, over the great oat-bin, with, “An’ only say there, now, Miss Luly!”
And then, how she did laugh! for there was the darling, eating his way out of the oats, as if his very life depended upon it.
Didn’t she hug him, though! He was so tame that she could handle and fondle him without fear of being bitten; but this time her joy made her squeeze him so close that he suddenly darted up, and sliced a tiny bit of skin from the tip of her saucy little nose.
“Euh!” cried Lulu, “mamma! Dick’s bit my nose! I ’fraid he’s all spoiled it! What shall I do?”
Mamma was frightened, I assure you, and ran to examine her little girl.
Dick repented the moment he did this naughty thing; and tucked his head under Lulu’s arm while he trembled violently.
“It’s nothing serious, but he must be whipped,” said mamma.