Flower had found her mission, and she was seldom now long away from the Doctor’s bedside.
“Don’t be jealous, Polly,” said Helen. “All this is saving Flower, and doing father good.”
“There is one comfort about it,” said Polly, “that as Aunt Maria perfectly detests poor Flower, or Daisy, as she calls her, she is not likely to go into father’s room.”
“That is true!” said Helen. “She came to the room door the other day, but Flower was repeating ‘Hiawatha,’ and acting it a little bit—you know she can’t help acting anything she tries to recite—and Aunt Maria just threw up her hands and rolled her eyes, and went away.”
“What a comfort!” said Polly. “Whatever happens, we must never allow the dreadful old thing to come near father.”
Alack! alas! something so bad had happened, so terrible a tragedy had been enacted that even Flower and Hiawatha combined could no longer keep Mrs. Cameron away from her brother-in-law’s apartment.
On the second day after Scorpion’s disappearance, the good woman called Helen aside, and spoke some words which filled her with alarm.
“My dear!” she said, “I am very unhappy. The little dog, the little sunbeam of my life, is lost. I am convinced, Helen! yes, I am convinced, that there is foul play in the matter. You, every one of you, took a most unwarrantable dislike to the poor, faithful little animal. Yes, every one of you, with the exception of David, detested my Scorpion, and I am quite certain that you all know where he now is.”
“But really, Aunt Maria,” said Helen, her fair face flushing, “really, now, you don’t seriously suppose that I had anything to say to Scorpion’s leaving you.”
“I don’t know, my dear. I exonerate David. Yes, David is a good boy; he was attached to the dog, and I quite exonerate him. But as to the rest of you, I can only say that I wish to see your father on the subject.”