“Would he, Abdiel?” said Clare.
The dog looked up in his master’s face with such a comical answer in his own, that the cook burst out laughing, and began to like Abdiel.
“But you don’t really mean to say,” she persisted, “that you’d go off again on the tramp, to be as cold and hungry again to-morrow as you were yesterday—and all for the sake of a dog? A dog ain’t a Christian!”
“Abdiel’s more of a Christian than some I know,” answered Clare: “he does what his master tells him.”
“There’s something in that!” said the cook.
“If I parted with Abdiel, I could never hold up my head among the angels,” insisted Clare. “Think what harm it might do him! He could trust nobody after, his goodness might give way! He might grow worse than Tommy!—No; I’ve got to take care of Abdiel, and Abdiel’s got to take care of me!—Ain’t you, Abby?”
“We can’t have him here in the kitchen nohow!” said the cook in relenting tone.
“Poor fellow!” said the housemaid kindly.
The dog turned to her and wagged his tail.
“What wouldn’t I give for a lover like that!” said the housemaid—but whether of Clare or the dog I cannot say.