And then she began talking about what could be done to find them. Persis and I didn't say anything. We wouldn't speak even to each other about what we both knew deep down in our hearts—we wouldn't even think of it.
Papa was not to be back till the next day. Nothing could be done till he came, any way, so all that day Persis and I had the full happiness of Bruno. He was so good and obedient and seemed so perfectly at home with us, that we even ventured to take him out a walk, though not of course a very long one. He gambolled over the moor with us, seemingly as happy as could be, and the very moment we called him back he came. It was wonderful how he seemed to know his name, especially when we called it out rather long, making the last "o" sound a good deal—"Bruno—o," like that, you know. Oh, he was so delightful! All our fancies about having a dog seemed nothing compared to the reality.
The next day papa came back. He was almost as pleased with Bruno as we were.
"Yes," he said, after looking him well over, "he is a beauty and no mistake. A collie of the very best kind. But some one or other must be in trouble about him."
"That's just what I have been saying," mamma put in. "If this weren't such an out-of-the-way place, no doubt we should have seen advertisements about him."
"I'll look in the local papers," said papa.
And that evening when we were at tea, he came in with a little thin-looking newspaper in his hand, which he seemed to be searching all through for something. Persis and I shivered, but we didn't dare to say much.
"Have you been at Local, papa?" I asked. "Is it far from here?"
"Been at where?" papa said. "What in the world is the child talking about?"
Papa has rather a sharp way sometimes, but he doesn't mean it, so we don't mind.