'It's Aunt Sophy's dog,' explained Daisy, 'and he's ill—very ill—and we can't make out what's the matter, so I thought you would tell us perhaps?'
'I'll ride over to-morrow and have a look at him.'
'Oh, but you needn't—he's here. Wait—I'll fetch him—don't you come, please.'
And presently Daisy made her appearance on the lawn, carrying Don, who felt quite a weight, in her arms. She set him down before the young man, who examined him in a knowing manner, while Miss Millikin, and some others who were not playing just then, gathered round. Don was languid, but dignified—he rather liked being the subject of so much notice. Daisy waited breathlessly for the verdict.
'Well,' said Mr. Netherby, 'it's easy enough to see what's wrong with him. I should knock off his grub.'
'But,' cried Miss Millikin, 'we have knocked off his grub, as you call it. The poor dog is starved—literally starved.'
Mr. Netherby said he should scarcely have supposed so from his appearance.
'But I assure you he has eaten nothing—positively nothing—for days and days!'
'Ah,' said Mr. Netherby, 'chameleon, is he? then he's had too much air—that's all.'