“No, no!” cried Euphemia. “There he is now, coming this way. And look at that woman! She is coming right to this shed.”
Sure enough, our visitor had passed by the front door, and was walking toward us. Evidently she had heard our voices.
“Don't come here!” cried Euphemia. “You'll be killed! Run! run! The dog is coming! Why, mercy on us! It's Pomona!”
CHAPTER VIII. POMONA ONCE MORE.
Sure enough, it was Pomona. There stood our old servant-girl, of the canal-boat, with a crooked straw bonnet on her head, a faded yellow parasol in her hand, a parcel done up in newspaper under her arm, and an expression of astonishment on her face.
“Well, truly!” she ejaculated.
“Into the house, quick!” I said. “We have a savage dog!”
“And here he is!” cried Euphemia. “Oh! she will be torn to atoms.”
Straight at Pomona came the great black beast, barking furiously. But the girl did not move; she did not even turn her head to look at the dog, who stopped before he reached her and began to rush wildly around her, barking terribly.