Sally listened. "That? That's Jetty. It's a little bit of a dog, up at the top of the house."
"Oh, a little bit of a dog! Why does he bark all the time?"
"I guess Mrs. Bonnet shut him up there alone in the dark till she came back from gadding with Miss Pittock."
"Couldn't we get him, Sally? I hate to hear him. I want to see him awfully."
"All right. You wait here. But don't you hurt anything, or I'll skin you, sure, like I told Miss Catherine. And whatever you do, don't you go into the little room till I come back."
"Is the hundred there?"
"Yes, it's there."
Tibbie, left alone, looked at the half-open door a minute, then turned away from it: all was so interesting, anyhow, she could wait with grace. With the palm of her hand, which she frequently stopped to smell, she stroked the fine linen pillows on the bed, and the white bear rugs on the floor, and the curtains: everything felt so soft. She examined the features of the Rev. Dorel Goodhue with approbation, proposing to ask Sally whether she knew him.
The bark came nearer and nearer; when the door opened, in tumbled a small silky ball of black dog, who almost turned himself inside out in his delight at being in human company again. He ran floppily about and about the floor, in his conscious, cringing, graceful way, waving his tail round and round, tossing back his long silk ears to bark and bark.