She stood a moment irresolute; then called peremptorily: “Snooks, Peter Snooks! come here this minute!”
No dog appeared, and she was about to raise her voice for the second time when from the darkness of the inner hall she heard some one say—“Do you mind coming in just a minute? Your little dog is making friends with me, and I can’t come to you.”
She followed the voice to the front room, where a boy lay in a wheeled chair, while beside him sat Peter Snooks on his hind legs, putting out his paw to shake hands in his most approved manner. At sight of his mistress he curled his tail under and crawled to her guiltily. “Don’t scold him, please,” said the boy; “it’s my fault. I’ve been wanting to know him this ever so long.”
There was something so appealing in the boy’s voice and so penitent in the way Peter Snooks looked up at her that she patted the little rascal, and said brightly:
“I never knew him to play truant before; but if you and he have made friends I shan’t apologize for his intrusion or mine.”
“Oh no! don’t,” said the boy. “I’ve watched you from the window ever since you came here to live, and I feel somehow as if I sort of knew you.”
“Are you ill?” she asked, gently.
“Broke my hip two months ago,” he said. “It’s a long time mending.”
“Oh! I am so sorry—I know how hard it must be—my father is—is ill, too.” She never could bring herself to put into words her father’s actual condition.
“I wish you would sit down,” the boy said. “Mother may be in any moment. You can’t think how it cheers a fellow up to see somebody.” He spoke hesitatingly, as if he feared to show too great pleasure lest he give her offense.