“You must have breakfast first.”
She led the way to the kitchen.
The cook, a middle-aged woman, looked at the dog, and her face puckered all over with points of interrogation and exclamation.
“Please, cook, will you give this young man some breakfast? He wanted to go to work without any, but that wouldn’t do—would it, cook?” said her mistress.
“I hope the dog won’t be running in and out of my kitchen all day, ma’am!”
“No fear of that, cook!” said Clare; “he never leaves me.”
“Then I don’t think—I’m afraid,” she began, and stopped. “—But that’s none of my business,” she added. “John will look after his own—and more!”
Miss Tempest said nothing, but she almost trembled; for John, she knew, had a perfect hatred of dogs. Nor could anyone wonder, for, gate open or gate shut, in they came and ran over his beds. She dared not interfere! He and Clare must settle the question of Abdiel or no Abdiel between them! She left the kitchen.
The cook threw the dog a crust of bread, and Abdiel, after a look at his master, fell upon it with his white, hungry little teeth. Then she proceeded to make a cup of coffee for Clare, casting an occasional glance of pity at his garments, so miserably worn and rent, and his brown bare feet.
“How on the face of this blessed world, boy, do you expect to work in the garden without shoes?” she said at length.