“He is blind,” answered Miss Lucy sadly. “He is very old. Seventeen years last summer, and he has lost all his teeth. He suffers greatly with the rheumatism——”
“So does father! He uses a liniment and it helps him. I might run and get you some. I’m sure mother would be glad to lend it to you. She is a real good neighbor, mother is. I never heard of a dog with the rheumatism, and—isn’t he funny? The funniest thing I’ve seen to-day! Does he always have his table set in that way? Won’t he break the saucer? He’s fumbling it all around, and he’s as stiff in his joints as father ever was the very worst day he’s had. I’ll run and get——”
But Miss Armacost held up a protesting hand.
“Don’t trouble, I beg. Sir Christopher is past cure. Besides, I could not endure the odor of any liniment. He has had the best advice in the city. My own doctor has treated him, as a great favor, of course, and out of consideration for my feelings. But the case is hopeless. It is but a matter of time and—and we must part.”
“Why—why—he’s only a dog, isn’t he?” exclaimed the too frank girl from Side Street.
“Indeed! If he is, there are some dogs which are higher than some people. He has been my constant companion for seventeen years and—and—Mary, help that boy to some of that cream. His eyes will come out of his head if he stares at it much longer. Give him plenty, and a big slice of cake.”
“Yes, mistress; but he does look as if he’d enjoy his victuals better if his face was washed first.”
Poor Towsley! Only that terrible shyness, which again gripped him so that he turned all cold and shivery, prevented him making a dash for the door and liberty. The glances of both mistress and servant seemed to pierce him like knives; and he wished—oh! how he wished!—that he had never walked into that trap of a parlor to be scorned and talked at as if he were a wooden boy.