“But it must be rather unpleasant for visitors to come to call on you, Miss Sylvia, with such a dog as that loose about the place. Now, I, for instance——”
“If you had a message from Evelyn for me,” said Sylvia, “you could call now with impunity. Strangers cannot; that is why father keeps Pilot. He is trained never to touch any one, but he is also trained to keep every one out. He does that in the best manner possible. He stands right in the person’s path and shows his big fangs and growls. Nobody would dream of going past him; but you would be safe.”
Jasper stood silent.
“It may be useful,” she repeated.
“You have not come now with a message from Evelyn?” said Sylvia, a pathetic tone in her voice.
“No, miss, I have not; but do you know, miss—do you know what has happened to me?”
“How should I?” replied Sylvia.
“I am turned out, miss—turned out by her ladyship—I who had a letter from Mrs. Wynford in Tasmania asking her ladyship to keep me always as my little Evelyn’s friend and nurse and guardian. Yes, Miss Sylvia, I am turned away as though I were dirt. I am turned away, miss, although it was only yesterday that her ladyship got the letter which the dying mother wrote. It is hard, is it not, Miss Leeson? It is cruel, is it not?”
“Hard and cruel!” echoed Sylvia. “It is worse. It is a horrible sin. I wonder you stand it!”
“Now, miss, for such a pretty young lady I wonder you have not more sense. Do you think I’d go if I could help it?”