Only half appeased, the children hung around the house, waiting to see what the live thing was. In the middle of the morning, a run-about drew up in front of the Little House and one of Mr. Westabrook’s men alighted from it. He was wearing a long loose coat, but he had nothing in his arms. He took the little fawn, basket and all, and placed it in the run-about. The children tagged his every movement, followed with their eyes his every motion. After the fawn was safely installed on the seat beside him, he turned on the engine.
Betsy burst into tears.
“Oh that’s the little girl,” the man exclaimed, as though suddenly remembering something, “who found the fawn, isn’t it?”
Through her sobs Betsy began, “I ranned and I ranned and I—”
“Well then,” the man said, “I guess I’ve got something for you.” He reached into one of the pockets of his big coat and brought out a tiny, nondescript bundle of loose white fur; of helpless waving black paws; big bulging winking black eyes; a curly queue of tail; an impertinent sniffing nose—a baby bull dog. He handed it to Betsy. Betsy’s tears dried in a flash. She hugged the puppy close to her warm neck; ran with him to the house. The children raced after her, and the run-about, utterly forgotten, disappeared down the road.
“Let’s call it Fawn,” Rosie said, and Fawn it was.
Fawn adopted the Little House as her home at once. She was a very affectionate person and she soon grew to love devotedly every member of the household. They all loved her devotedly in return; but none loved her more than Betsy; and Betsy’s dog she always remained.