“Beanie,” I said, “you are a much better dog than I thought you were, when I first knew you.”
“I guess troubles improve one,” he said, “and I feel better since I lost my flesh.”
“Too much fat is bad for dog or man,” I said, then I ran to old Ellen who was coming in dressed in her neat cotton wrapper, and looking as calm as if she was used to being routed out of her bed every night of her life.
Mr. Bonstone explained his errand, and her face lighted up. “If you’se a friend of my dear Mister Granton,” she said, “old Ellen will do anything she can for you.” Then she wrinkled her brow. She was doing some thinking.
“Would your lady take a little dark child?” she asked.
“Do you mean a coloured child?” he said.
“Oh, no, sir,” and she smiled; “no, no—I mean dark like Sicilian or Syrian. I know a Syrian baby—”
“Good healthy child?” asked Mr. Bonstone.
“Yes, sir—a monstrous fine child, and not so very dark complected—but considerable darker than you.”