“Amarilla,” I whispered in the little dog’s ear, “where is the charm of the Drive, of Fifth Avenue, of Broadway? Gone—gone, except as lovely, lively places to visit. No more New York for me.”
Amarilla trembled, and nestled closer against Mrs. Granton. She had always hated a city. How her little face brightened when we were well on the broad road leading to Pleasant River. How much we both loved that big house, and the dear people who lived in it.
“Amarilla,” I said, “if our family moved back to New York, would you come too?”
She gave a pitiful little squeal, but it was a decided “Yes.”
“Suppose they lost their money, and had to live down town, would you stick to them?”
At this she struggled to her feet, wagged her bushy little tail, and barked sharply.
“Hush, Boy,” said our mistress, tucking her up again. “You are exciting Amarilla.”
I persisted and whispered again, “Suppose your missie (that was what she always called Mrs. Granton) was poor, and had nothing to eat: would you go on the stage again, to earn some money for her?”
Amarilla hesitated one instant, then she began to howl very gently, very resignedly, but with great determination. She would be willing to make any sacrifices for the woman who had been so good to her.
Mrs. Granton was annoyed with me. She knew that we dogs communicated with each other. “Boy,” she said irritably, “if you make Amarilla uncomfortable once more, you shall go in with Louis.”