“I’ll put you back on the mantel,” said the boy. “I wish I knew who owned you, as they must miss you.”
For over a week the Woolly Dog remained in the home of Mrs. Ward, and a very lonesome week it was, for no one played with the toy. The Woolly Dog was growing very sad.
Then, one day, he heard outside a voice he well knew. The voice asked:
“Will you have time to do some extra washing this week, Mrs. Ward?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cressey, I think so,” answered Frank’s mother. “Won’t you come in for a moment and get warm?”
“Thank you, I will,” and Donald’s mother, who had come to see about getting the washing done, entered the very room where the Woolly Dog stood on the mantel.
In another instant Donald’s mother saw the Dog. Her eyes opened wide with wonder.
“Oh, where did you get that?” she cried.
“What?” asked Mrs. Ward.
“That Woolly Dog! It belongs to Donald—at least, I’m sure it’s the same one he lost in a snow bank. I can easily tell by looking. If it’s Donald’s Dog it will have an extra seam underneath where I sewed him up after Jane cut him open.”