"What has he got? Take it from him, children.—What is it, Salome?"
"It's a bird, I think.—Puck, put it down," said Reginald sternly, seizing Puck by his fluffy tail, and administering several hard slaps.
When at last Puck dropped his prey, Mrs. Pryor exclaimed, "My feather brush—my dear, dear mistress's feather brush! I've seen her dust her own chayny with it times. I wouldn't have taken a pound for it. Oh dear! oh dear!"
"It is not much injured, I hope," said Mrs. Wilton. "Only two feathers have been loosened."
"A nasty, mischievous little thing," said Mrs. Pryor in an injured tone, making a thrust at Puck with the short handle of the feather brush.
It was not in dog nature to take this patiently, and Puck stood at bay, barking furiously, and growling as an interlude between every fresh outburst.
Mrs. Pryor put her hands to her ears, and saying something about calling her son to protect her, she toddled away. After a storm comes a calm. Puck stood apologetically on his hind legs when his enemy was gone; and Carl, seizing him in his arms, carried him off to the little room he was to occupy with Hans, saying, "That horrid old woman should not touch him."
Like the sun shining through a cloud was the appearance of Ruth's good-natured face.