"We're not going to give up," he said. "But now you must be taken back into the house again. You're tired."
And no amount of pleading or denial could bend his inflexible will.
Wigglesworth came prancing into my room, just as the Doctor was leaving.
"You haven't said how adorable he is," I said, coaxing my new toy to the bed.
"Adorable!" he repeated, emphatically.
But, Diary-dear, the Doctor wasn't looking at the dog!
Quite at Home
August 30th
Dear Poet:
By now Mr. Denton has brought you my incoherent note of thanks for the benison of Wigglesworth. Every day I thank you more. He is the dearest little friend one could imagine or wish for. I have taught him to bark loudly when I say your name, and I hope to bring him to an appreciation of poetry, by selected readings! Next week, sometime, I am to have my promised lawn fete to introduce the countryside to the new member of our household. Even Sarah has succumbed. I heard her talking something suspiciously like baby-talk to him this morning, when she came in with my tray and observed Wiggles regarding her brightly and wagging all over, from his basket at the foot of my bed. And Father is a willing captive of his charms, even luring him from me on long, companionable walks. But I believe that he is jealous of you because he has never thought of getting me a dog. I have had birds and goldfish and even an Angora kitten which lived but to run away. But never since childhood a real live dog of my own. Mr. Denton must have worked some magic with Father that he has so inexplicably allowed me to accept so valuable a gift from—a stranger? But no, I cannot call you that!
I regret to report that Wigglesworth has conceived an adoration for the doctor. The one of no consequence, I mean. I cannot understand it, but there seems to be a natural affinity between the two.