The last member of her expostulation was hardly in logical sequence, but it had not the less influence on Clare for that.
“I will do whatever you please, ma’am,” he answered humbly. “—Come, Abdiel!”
The dog came running across the road with his bone in his mouth.
“You mustn’t bring that inside the gate, Ab!” said Clare.
The dog dropped it.
“Good dog! It’s a lady’s garden, you know, Abdiel!” Then turning to his hostess, Clare added, “I always tell him when I’m pleased with him: don’t you think it right, ma’am?”
“I daresay! I don’t know anything about dogs.”
“If you had a dog like Abdiel, he would soon teach you dogs, ma’am!” rejoined Clare.
By this time they were at the house-door. The lady told him to wait there, went in, and had a talk with her two maids. In half an hour, Clare and his four-footed angel were asleep—in an outhouse, it is true, but in a comfortable bed, such as they had not seen since their flight from the caravans. The cold breeze wandered moaning like a lost thing round the bare walls, as if every time it woke, it went abroad to see if there was any hope for the world; but it did not touch them; and if through their ears it got into their dreams, it made their sleep the sweeter, and their sense of refuge the deeper.
But although the bewitching boy and his good dog were not lying in the open air over against her gate, and although never a thought of murder or theft came to trouble her, it was long before the old lady found repose. Her heart had been deeply touched.