"Likely story; and Betty told you, I suppose, to parade yourself through the front entry, when Mr. Howe was talking with a gentleman; I know your tricks. I should think you had had enough of gentlemen to last you one while."
"The carpenter was—"
"Don't talk to me about 'carpenters;' where there is a will there is a way; you might have waited for the water."
"It was to mix Charley's medicine," said Rose, with brimming eyes.
"I dare say—such things don't go down with me; pick up your things quick and get ready."
Rose attempted to lay Charley down on the bed, but he began to cry most piteously.
"There is no need of your stopping for him now; he might as well cry for one thing as another; he is always crying, I am sick to death of hearing him; he is perfectly spoiled."
"He is sick," said Rose, stooping to kiss Charley as if he could be pained by Mrs. Howe's heartlessness.
"Well—any how, I am sick of both of you; so hurry, and don't think you are going to stay, because it is beginning to sprinkle," said she, drawing carefully aside one corner of the cook's petticoat as she peered out the window—"come, make haste now," and Aunt Dolly swept down stairs.
Poor afflicted Mrs. Howe! Flynn had robbed the pelerine and bracelet of their power to charm, and the "marked passages" no longer gave her consolation, for Finels had admired Rose's eyes. Consuelo, too, lies wheezing in his embroidered blanket; dear little Consuelo! it could not be that he was going to be sick! And Mrs. Howe takes him up gently, strokes his long silken ears, looks into his eyes, and offers him some food, which the pampered little cur refuses.