“No wonder; she seems to suffer so much, and to be so alone in the world, poor thing!”
“Yes, that’s it; she often cries by the hour; and when I ask what’s the matter, she says, ‘I haven’t a soul in the world to care for me, Mary; my family are all dead and gone.’ Poor creature! it’s sad enough, and I ought to be patient with her; but indeed, miss, it’s often enough to try the patience of a saint—the way she goes on, wantin’ to be dressed a half a dozen times a day, and wakin’ me up to wait on her every hour in the night. There’s her bell now, and I must be gone.”
“Poor woman!” sighed Floy to herself. “I wonder if she knows of the Friend whose love is everything to me now? I wish I could tell her what comfort and rest it gives.”
The Madame was still in bed. Frisky had crept in beside her, and Mary found her petting and caressing him.
“My pretty pet! my little darling!” she was saying, “you at least love me. And I love you, precious little beauty. Ah, Mary,” to her maid as she caught sight of her, “so there you are! Just bring the darling’s silver bells, and a pink ribbon to tie them with. He wants them, I know he does, the pretty pet!”
Mary obeyed, fastening the string of tiny, tinkling bells about the dog’s neck, and could not refrain from joining her mistress’s laugh over his evident delight in his finery.
“Has he had his breakfast, Mary?” the Madame inquired with solicitude, “and did he eat with appetite? You know I thought him dull and droopy yesterday.”
“Yes, Madame, I know; but I’m sure, as I told you then, it was nothing but want of exercise and over-eating.”
“Nonsense, Mary! you forget that he takes an airing with me almost every day.”
“No, Madame, but I should say he needed more than that. Yes, he had his breakfast, and eat a plenty.”