“I shall go right to her,” said Mrs. Bonstone. “Call another taxi.”
The dear, patient man got another taxi, and with him, Mrs. Bonstone flew off to the mother. I did not go this time, but I heard her telling my master the next morning all about it.
It seems the Syrian mother was frightfully ill when they got there. Mrs. Bonstone stayed with her, and sent her husband to get a nurse for the mother, and one for the baby. He spent a part of the night in this agreeable pursuit, and by breakfast time the Bonstones, nurse and baby were comfortably settled on Riverside Drive.
Money does certainly oil the wheels of life. How long it would have taken a person on foot to accomplish what the Bonstones did that night! I could not help thinking of some further lines the English greyhound taught me—
“As I sat in my café, I said to myself,
They may talk as they please about what they call pelf.
But help it, I can not, I can not help thinking,
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!
How pleasant it is to have money!”
A little while before lunch, Mrs. Bonstone called us dogs to go to the nursery with her. It was a room that had been quickly fitted up for the brown baby. What a transformation in the little creature! Some one had been up bright and early, shopping for Miss Cyria. She looked a little aristocrat in lace and muslin, and how deliciously she smelt—just like a faint lily of the valley. What an up-bringing that child would have!