Mary’s face cleared. Yakeman and Leigh must know best, and papa would not let them have the dog if it was unkind. It was not what she’d like—to live in a house across the fields from mamma, only to pay her a morning call now and then. But still, dogs were different, she supposed.
All this time papa had been looking at Fuzzy, as I think we may now begin to call him.
“He’s a nice puppy,” he said, “a very nice little fellow. Of course, he’ll want to be properly taken care of, and careful training. But I can trust Mellor—you know Mellor, of course, the coachman?” he went on to the smith. “He’s not bad with dogs.”
“No, sir, I should say he’s very good with ’em,” Yakeman replied. “Feedin’s a deal to do with it—there’s a many young dogs spoilt with over feedin’.”
“I’ll see to that,” said Mr Bertram. “Now, children, we must be moving on, I think.”
But the three stood there looking rather strange.
“I thought—” began Leigh.
“Won’t we—” began Artie.
“Oh, papa,” began Mary.
“What in the world is the matter?” said their father in surprise. “Aren’t you pleased about the puppy? I’ll send Mellor to fetch him to-morrow.”