“What can I do with the dog, so they won’t get it again?” asked Marion, who was still scarlet with indignation.
The officer turned around and beckoned to a good-natured but seedily dressed man.
“Here, Bill, take this dog over to the society’s rooms,” he said shortly, “and there’s a quarter to pay you for your trouble.”
Marion thanked them both and hurried away. Her heart was lighter for having done even a poor street dog a kindly service.
Just as she reached her home a gentleman rushed up to her. It was young Ralph Moore, looking worried and anxious.
“You are in awfully hard luck, aren’t you, Miss Marlowe?” he said, rapidly, “and poor Dollie is sick. Oh, you don’t know how I pity you.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” said Marion, sadly. “I am on our last dollar, and the rent is due to-morrow.”
Mr. Moore stood in silence for just a minute, then he turned to Marion again, his face flushing with emotion.
“I will be back in an hour or two, at the most, Miss Marlowe,” he said, hastily. “Something has got to be done. I can’t see poor Dollie suffer.”
“Oh, what do you mean?” began Marion.